


Under the Gun

by justacookieofacumberbatch (buffyholic)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Assassin John, M/M, i have no idea how to tag this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2016-02-05
Packaged: 2018-05-06 08:11:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 24,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5409500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buffyholic/pseuds/justacookieofacumberbatch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson has a dangerous job, and he's good at it. But, could his new assignment have him in over his head?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Are you--”

John peered over his newspaper at the embodiment of the soft, lilting voice, a man of average height wearing a power suit. _A power suit_. Honestly? The only thing missing was the douche haircut. Instead, he looked like he got his haircut while sitting in a miniature plane. Plus, the briefcase was entirely too conspicuous. No one would believe that John would carry something like that.

“--the guy?”

John let the top half of his newspaper fall as he jutted out his chin. “What guy would that be?”

“Oh”--the man stepped back, his coffee mug faltering--”sorry. I was meant to meet someone here. I obviously have the wrong person.”

John snapped the paper back into position only to fold it up again and set it aside. “What’s your name?”

The man’s gaze, which had been craning out the front door of the coffee shop, snapped to John. “What? Oh. It’s, um, Roger.”

“Sit down, Roger.” John took a sip of his macchiato and pushed his plate towards the opposite side of the table. “Have a bit of scone, would you?”

The chair opposite John screeched against the tile floor, and the man froze halfway into it, his eyes darting among the other patrons. John pursed his lips. Roger was bringing far too much attention to himself.

John gritted his teeth. “Sit in the damn seat, Roger.”

“Sorry.” Roger cleared his throat as his butt hit the seat, straightening his tie for good measure. “I’m a bit nervous.”

John sipped his coffee as he looked Roger over. “Well, then you’ve come to the wrong person. Have a bit of scone.”

“Oh”--Roger finally settled down after smoothing his tie once more--”no, thank you.”

John broke off a chunk of scone and brought it to his mouth. As he chewed, he said, “They’re really quite good.”

Roger stared at the scone.

“Perhaps, down to business, hm?”

“All right.” Roger set the briefcase on the table and unlatched it.

“Put. The briefcase. Away. Roger.”

Roger furrowed his brows at John. Then, he glanced at the briefcase, his cheeks flushing before the color drained from his face. “Oh yes, of course. Sorry.”

Finally, the briefcase was back on the floor. John took a breath and a bite of scone. “Didn’t your client go over this with you?”

“I’m-- um, my boss said-- he sent me to--”

“Did he tell you what this is about?”

“No, sir.” Roger took a slurp from his coffee.

“That’s probably for the best.” John slid the briefcase with his foot over to his side of the table. “Is everything in here?”

“Yes.”

“Everything?”

“I think so.”

“Well”--John took one last sip of coffee and tucked his paper under his arm--”tell your boss that if anything is missing, I know where to find him.”

“Very well, sir.” Roger nodded to the table and gulped his coffee, grimacing around it.

John stood, propping a hand on the edge of the table as he swooped up the briefcase. He picked up his demitasse. “Oh, and Roger?”

“Yes?” His eyes met John’s, wide and alarmed.

“You’re new at this firm, yes?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Find another job. These aren’t your kind of people. Now, stay here; drink your coffee; finish the rest of my scone. If anyone asks where you were, I’ll back you up.” 

John stepped towards the tub of dirty dishes but turned back. “But honestly, quit that job.” He thumped the briefcase against Roger’s chair. “I’d hate to see you in one of these.”

At that, John tossed his cup in the dish tub and limped out with Roger’s staring eyes raising the hairs on the back of his neck.

***

As John strolled into the lobby of his hotel several minutes later, the stiffness finally fading from his leg, he grabbed an apple from a basket near the door. He took a chomp out of it while heading for the lift, the corner of his mouth twitching at the flinch of the man already waiting there.

John bit a large hunk of his apple and glanced at the mirrored lift door, where he found the waiting man staring at John’s back. He held the apple at arm’s length and raised his eyebrows to the man.

The man shook his head as the lift dinged and whisked open. John walked in, but the man didn’t follow. Being the polite person he was, John bit down on the apple enough to hold it between his teeth and held the button to keep open the door. He raised his eyebrows again, sweeping his arm down and back in invitation..

“You know,” the man said, pointing a finger at the ceiling. “I think I’ll take the stairs. I could use the exercise.”

John shrugged as he pressed the button for his floor, and the doors shut. As the lift rose, and he made his way down the hallway, nodding to a maid on the way, John ran his thumb over the smooth plastic handle of the briefcase, eager to get into it. This was the part of the job he actually enjoyed, unlocking the puzzle, figuring out how the person ticked, where his weaknesses were. 

Propping the apple between his teeth, John pulled his room key from his pocket and opened the door. He dropped the briefcase on the bed before walking back to the loo, switching on the light. Once inside, he grabbed a pill bottle from his sponge bag, shook two paracetamol into his hand and swallowed them. It wouldn’t do for his senses to be dulled today.

Finally, he settled next to the briefcase with a groan, stretching and rolling his ankles. With one more protracted bite of the apple, John input the code to unlock the briefcase and flipped it open. Inside were his down payment and a single manila file folder.

The stack of money looked close enough to the agreed-upon amount that he didn’t bother to count it, but the folder was odd. Usually he got accordion files full of pictures, schedules, associates. But, inside this folder were only a blurry picture of a dark-haired man, a picture of an older woman with tan hair, and a picture of a cafe with a door marked 221b next to it.

John pulled out the blurry photograph of a man’s face and torso, obviously taken through a telescopic lens. God, was this really the best picture they had? John could find a better one on Google, though a later search would reveal only a basic website enumerating the distinctive features of different types of tobacco ash.

In the photo given to him, John could make out dark, curly hair, the outline of a profile, and what appeared to be a dark coat or jacket, but not much else. On the back were written the words _Sherlock Holmes 221b Baker Street_ and a date only fifteen days away.

If he had known that all he would get to start were three pictures and an address, he wouldn’t have taken the job. Even at what they were paying him. How did they expect him to learn enough to make it look like an accident or suicide in that time without so much as a jumping off point?

He glanced at the other photos, no more useful than the first. His apple rolled to the floor as he pushed his hands back over his hair.

How the fuck was he supposed to do this?

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes perched himself in the window frame, one leg dangling out into the open air, and pulled a cigarette and lighter from a cream-colored slipper. God, he must have been freezing, but he didn’t shiver or even wrap his dressing gown closer to himself. Instead, the tail of it whipped around his leg as he took the first long drag of his cigarette.

The next morning found John sipping at a scorching to-go cup of tea at a window table directly below the supposed flat of one Mr. Sherlock Holmes. A long-picked-over bit of breakfast cooled in front of him. The man behind the counter had already been by twice to try to clear away the plate, and if this Holmes bloke didn’t come out soon, John was sure to be kicked out. 

The foot on his good side bounced next to a table leg, making it vibrate enough to displace a precarious piece of silverware. Did this man ever leave home? John’s research last night suggested that stealth was paramount, so he preferred to wait until the flat was empty before planting his surveillance across the street. But it was quickly becoming more risky to sit here.

John blew out a long breath, puffing his cheeks, as he pulled a grey flatcap onto his head, threw a satchel over his shoulder, and stood. The LCR holster inside his waistband dug into his hip, and he adjusted his trousers before walking for the door.

Finally, just as John was about to breach the door frame, a whoosh of coat and curls swept past him. He watched the retreating form, who pulled on a pair of gloves and flipped his collar against the wind. The mystery man glanced at the traffic from John’s direction before crossing the street and disappearing around the corner.

Holmes’s face was not what John had expected from the blurred image in the photograph. He cut a much more striking figure than what was suggested in the image, the haze of curls a vivid contrast to angular features and sharp cheekbones. The only word that seemed appropriate for this man’s description was enigmatic. And the posh clothes and expensive price on his head did not fit with someone who lived above a cafe. Not that John had never killed someone in budget accommodations before. But the price had been lower.

A blast of wind blew back the plackets of John’s coat, and he zipped it to his chin and pulled on his own gloves as he wended his way to the street corner. Once there, he paused to stay out of the view of a security camera, then ducked to a keypad mounted next to the heavy metal door leading to an underground car park. God bless the internet. Without it, he might have had to wait until night to break in through one of the front doors. At best, that would mean more loose ends that would need to be tied up after the job. At worst--well, he didn’t want to think about that.

As it was, it should only take a bit of guesswork to get into the car park, and from there it would be smooth sailing, only flimsier indoor locks to worry about. If John had to guess from the price and location of the flats, which he did, then they weremost likely to be occupied by middle-aged, upper-middle class Londoners. Most likely, at least a few of them would have set their birth year as their passcode, so John started at 1970 and worked his way out.

He got it right on the third try. Perfect. Few enough that passersby would assume he was a resident who forgot his PIN, although it was unlikely anyone even noticed him.

The door cranked its way open, and John ducked inside before it reached the apex, the dim yellow light jarring after the pale winter sun. Before his eyes could adjust, he hurried as best he could down the smooth, grey ramp, keeping out of the direct beam of the overhead lights.

A mere smattering of cars greeted him as he reached the main level of the car park. He paused there to survey the space, listening for signs of another human being. After a moment, a young woman with a small dog tucked under her arm stepped from the elevator, digging with her free hand through her bag as the dog attempted to lick her face.

She pulled out a set of keys and pointed at the dog. “No, Sasha. No kisses.”

She turned away and out of John’s sight, and as the jingling of keys and collar faded, he took the opportunity to go for the stairwell.

One flight got him back up to the ground floor, and it was one more to his destination. He counted off the doors to the flats facing Baker Street until he got to the one that should be straight across from 221.

He listened.

Hearing only the faint sounds of traffic and growl of a radiator, John pulled his lockpick from his satchel and went to work. He kept close to the door, giving the impression of simply using a key to anyone who might pass by, but he got in and closed the door behind him before anyone did.

It was a nice flat, full of antiques and knick knacks that would make it a robber’s dream. But the last thing John wanted was to leave any clue that he had been here in the form of a missing item. He had to be quiet as whisper, less disruptive than a mouse. Anything so little as a bit of spilled water from a houseplant could set someone off.

So, John slipped off his shoes and set them just inside the door, padding his way across to the window. As he slid the lock free, a flash of movement swept through his peripheral vision.

He turned, fingers poised above his right hip, to find a calico cat landing on the back of a sofa. It stared at him, and John rolled his eyes before crouching by the windowsill and sliding the window open a few inches. From here, he could get a good view of the first floor windows and the front door, which should be enough to establish patterns to work from for the next step.

He adhered the small wireless camera to the wall just outside the window nestled just above and between the wrought iron railings of the balustrade. From there, he pulled a tablet from his satchel, checked the camera’s connection and picture, and, satisfied, shut the window.

After arranging the curtains back in place and checking for any marks left by his meddling, he turned to find the cat still perched at the back of the sofa, staring at him as its clawless front paws attempted to scratch at the upholstery. John pointed his index and middle fingers at his own eyes and then the cat’s.

“You never saw me.”

The cat laid down and licked its paws, and John left.

***

The camera proved less effective than John had hoped. Holmes had no rhyme or reason to his movements. Over the three days John had been watching him, the man had not left the flat at the same time twice. Didn’t he have a job he had to go to? A place he liked to have lunch? Something?

Not that there wasn’t plenty of action at the flat, certainly enough to make it as good as impenetrable. People dripped in and out of the cafe from early morning until midnight. The woman with the tan hair came and went regularly, often visiting the cafe during off hours. At least she had a schedule. And then there were the visitors, almost all men, showing up at all hours. Only two of them had come more than once.

And did he ever sleep? On the first night, Holmes had left the house just before midnight and not come back until four o’clock that morning. And just now, John caught up with the recordings of the night before enough to see his mark leave his flat at two, still to return at--John checked the clock on his tablet--five twenty.

John poured boiling water over a packet of instant coffee and sat again at his room’s writing desk, propping the tablet in his left hand to watch the lack of show. Even if the problems of schedule hadn’t been complicated by the various and sundry flat visitors and cafe patrons, John had his work cut out.

He hated to tail a mark without any idea of their habits, but with this man and such a close deadline, John didn’t see as he had much choice. He would just have to case the neighborhood for a suitable hiding place. Or perhaps he could pay off a cabbie to drive him around for the day. But they were usually crap at following people without getting caught.

Just as John was about to quit out of the camera’s feed to look into the Baker Street neighborhood, he saw Holmes approaching the 221b door. He was soaked, every inch of him that wasn’t covered with his coat plastered with mud. However, his gait was just as brisk and haughty as the first day John saw him, not downtrodden or exhausted at all.

Holmes bounded up the front stairs, and after a moment of struggle, he threw open the front door, leaving a trail of mud up the stairs as the door swung shut behind him. What could he have been doing for the past three hours that would have left him in such a state? Assuming Holmes hadn’t changed clothes since John saw him leave, under the coat was an impeccable suit tailored to within an inch of its life, and John had never met a single person who wore suits like that who would allow even a speck of dust to touch them. 

Less than a minute later, Holmes’s front window flew open, and from between the fluttering curtains emerged the man himself, wrapped in a thin, blue silken dressing gown. Through the open vee at the top, John could see the clear delineation of Holmes’s collar, a line of mud above and pale skin below. A dusting of hair lighter than that on his head skated over his pecs and converged into a central line that disappeared behind the flaps of the gown.

John swallowed.

 

Holmes turned away from the window, a gust of wind following behind, making the dressing gown plaster to his back. Though the flat was still dark, enough of the early morning light filtered in for John to spy the outlines of powerful thighs and a perky, round arse. If there had been more light, John was sure he could have seen the crease where arse turns to thigh, the cleft between buttocks.

John leaned closer to the screen, wishing he had picked a camera with a zoom feature.

Holmes perched himself in the window frame, one leg dangling out into the open air, and pulled a cigarette and lighterfrom a cream-colored slipper. God, he must have been freezing, but he didn’t shiver or even wrap his dressing gown closer to himself. Instead, the tail of it whipped around his leg as he took the first long drag of his cigarette.

He faced west, the glow of the rising sun giving a blush to his pale skin, painting it in impressionist shades. The sheen of sun against silk made Holmes appear as if he were lit from the inside. If John were an artistic man, he might have wanted to paint this moment. As it was, jaw slack and eyes rapt, he captured the screen a few times.

Holmes smoked slowly, each drag savored, held, before being released into the cold air. He stretched and settled into the window like a cat, and his fingers curled over the inside of the window’s frame, letting the left sleeve of the dressing gown fall to his elbow. Marks formed a dark spider stretching from the crook of his elbow.

Well, that certainly added a bit of context, though certainly they wouldn’t put such a high price on the head of a simple drug user. Or even dealer.

Holmes looked down towards his front door, and John’s gaze followed. There he found a man looking up at Holmes. He was a posh man, suit impeccably tailored with the posture to match. His head turned towards Holmes, revealing a sharp nose and a receding line in his auburn hair. John saw the man’s mouth move and shot his gaze back up to Holmes, who took one more drag and flicked the ash out of the window.

He couldn’t be sure, but if John had to guess, the words out of Holmes’s mouth were, “Piss off.”

The man didn’t do as he was asked. Rather, he crossed one leg over the other and leaned on his umbrella, his expression turning stern as he talked.

Holmes rolled his eyes and flicked away the half-smoked cigarette in the general direction of his interloper, who did not seem pleased. In a sweep of limbs and silk, Holmes retreated into his flat and slammed the window shut. John could see what could only be described as a pout on Holmes’s face before the curtains whipped closed.

A moment later, the front door opened, and Mr. Umbrella strode inside.

John waited for several minutes, more than once wondering what he was waiting for. But every time, just as he was about to walk away, a curtain would flutter, or a shadow pass over it. And John would be sucked back in, still wrapped up in solving the mystery of “Why Holmes?” He shouldn’t have even been wondering in the first place. He knew all too well that questions were trouble.

Still, his mind rattled with questions, spinning and jumbling until no one question could be picked out of the blur, let alone be answered. He just needed to figure out how Holmes worked, not what he did, John reminded himself as he finally resolved to lock the screen. He would case the neighborhood and catch up with the video later.

John pressed the button to lock the screen, but just as the screen flickered out, Mr. Umbrella stepped out to the front steps. John fumbled with the tablet, quickly lighting up the screen and entering his passcode.

The screen opened in time for John to watch Mr. Umbrella walk across the pavement as a black car pulled up. He waited--straightening his tie, tugging his cuffs, smoothing his hair, and shrugging his suit coat into perfect order--as a driver hurried around the car. As the driver opened the rear passenger-side door, Mr. Umbrella stopped to say something, glancing back at Holmes’s flat, and got in.

Once the black car disappeared from John’s view, Holmes reappeared in the window. He started the routine afresh with a new cigarette, a slight tremor in his left hand changing the shape of the lighter’s flame before the first whiff of tobacco settled it.

He tossed the lighter aside as he took the second drag, holding the cigarette between his lips as he stretched the fingers of his right hand. Intravenous drug user. Comfortable, even exhibitionist, with nudity. Primarily male visitors at all hours of the day and night. Clothes and possessions much nicer than the real estate (even for the middle of London).

Could he be a prostitute? He was a good one if the quality of his possessions was anything to go by. Maybe it was a love thing that brought John to his door. Maybe some rich and powerful client fell in love and got rebuffed. Those types of people didn’t take well to rejection. He probably got obsessed. Maybe Holmes got scared, threatened violence. People did crazy things for love. Or obsession.

John’s head fell sideways into his hand as he watched the screen. _This is what I get for breaking the rules._ He wished he hadn’t come to that conclusion. Now he couldn’t help but think that his mark didn’t deserve it. That maybe some people should learn to take no for an answer.

But, at least now he had an opening. He could pose as a client and go from there.

Holmes leaned his head against the window sill, stretching the tendons in his throat. The cigarette in hisleft hand hovered just inside the window as his other hand gripped the dressing gown just below his groin.

With a hitch of breath, John captured the screen.

Fuck.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said one chapter a week, but I have approximately zero chill about this fic. Many thanks once again to emmagrant01 for the beta. I hope you enjoy!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As he turned the corner onto Baker Street, he patted his inside coat pocket, verifying the location of the small cube of plastic. A British Army drumline beat a cadence in his chest, and he pressed his lips together. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been this nervous when planting a camera in a target’s flat, but something about this man and this place unsettled him.
> 
> Then again, he could use it. A middle-aged man with a cane on his first visit to a prostitute, who wouldn’t be nervous?

Later that day, John limped from the lobby, dressed in jeans and a jumper, his seldom-used cane in tow. He leaned his weight on it, taking on the uneven gait it imposed. That he hated. But needs must. If he wished to gain access to Holmes’s flat, he needed to look as innocuous as possible.

As he turned the corner onto Baker Street, he patted his inside coat pocket, verifying the location of the small cube of plastic. A British Army drumline beat a cadence in his chest, and he pressed his lips together. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been this nervous when planting a camera in a target’s flat, but something about this man and this place unsettled him.

Then again, he could use it. A middle-aged man with a cane on his first visit to a prostitute, who wouldn’t be nervous?

John hobbled up the stairs and paused for a moment before pressing the bell for the upstairs flat. Then, he waited, adjusting the grip on his cane and straightening his posture.

He rang the bell again.

Finally, he heard a woman call, “Sherlock!” from behind the door, and after another pause, she opened the door.

“Hello, darling. Are you here to see Sherlock?” she asked as she gestured for him to come in.

John stepped over the threshold. He cleared his throat and peered up the stairs.

“Oh, don’t be nervous.” She closed the front door. “He’s not as bad as he seems.”

John’s brow furrowed, and he turned his head to stare at the woman.

She squeezed his hand. “Sherlock,” she called up the stairs.

“Not now, Mrs. Hudson,” roared a voice from upstairs. John was surprised it didn’t blow back his hair.

She huffed and started up the stairs.

Well, he had to get up there one way or another. He shrugged and followed.

To John’s surprise, the door at the top of the stairs was open, and Mrs. Hudson walked right in, tutting as she surveyed a floor strewn with papers and teacups. Some of the teacups lay on their sides, pools of various sizes in various stages of drying spreading from their edges. An old, worn armchair stacked with newspapers sat in front of the fireplace. Across from it was a leather monstrosity of modern furniture design. John couldn’t believe it was comfortable. Not to mention the skull on the mantle or the conspicuously pristine square cleared from the coffee table.

But even with all that, the greatest point of interest was the man on the sofa. He laid in the fetal position, bare feet poking out from underneath the hem of his dressing gown. Even curled up like he was, his body took up nearly all the sitting area. His riotous mess of curls, haloed by light from the still-open window, hid the small bit of his face that would have been left uncovered by the back of the sofa and the pillow under his head.

Mrs. Hudson strode across the room and closed the window, arranging the curtains back into place. “Sherlock, you have a client.”

Holmes’s head popped up like he was in a Whack-a-Mole game, and his body soon followed in a swish of fabric. Never had John seen a man go from prone to standing so fast, let alone with so much composure. One would never guess there was only a thin layer of silk held by a precariously tied belt between him and the world from the way he held himself.

Holmes strode the few steps to John without so much as holding his dressing gown in place, letting the bottom of it billow and sweep behind him. John couldn’t help himself from hazarding a glance before pulling his shoulders back and raising his chin to meet Holmes’s eyes.

Holmes stared into his eyes long enough to make John uncomfortable, but he refused to look away, only a bob of his Adam’s apple betraying his discomfort. Finally, Holmes’s glance swept down to John’s feet and back up.

“Boring,” he stated before sweeping away again. He plucked the skull off the mantle and pulled a pack of cigarettes from its mandible. Tapping the pack against the skull’s crown, he continued, “Mrs. Hudson will show you out.”

John laughed as his gaze shifted to Mrs. Hudson. “What, is that really it?”

Twenty seconds in the flat, and he had already been rejected. Holmes must have been quite successful to dismiss a potential client off hand like that. And boring? 

Mrs. Hudson shrugged, then nodded.

John shook off the sting of rejection. It didn’t matter; he wasn’t actually here for that. “Well, could I at least use the loo first?”

Holmes slid onto the back of the armchair, a bare thigh slipping out from his dressing gown. Unfortunately, it appeared that Holmes didn’t miss John’s surreptitious glance, but John didn’t miss the smirk on Holmes’s face either.

Holmes rolled his eyes, shaking a cigarette from the pack. “If you insist,” he said, pointing through the kitchen.

John went where he was directed, but he had barely cleared the kitchen table when the word, “Wait,” rushed from Holmes’s mouth.

John swallowed, pushing back his instinct to run or fight. Either would make him look guilty. So, he glanced around to what he could without moving. A door to the stairs was to his immediate left, and on the other side of him were a microscope and a series of petri dishes. If need be, the door would make for an easy escape, and the microscope looked heavy enough to knock Holmes out. Taking a deep breath, John reassured himself that he couldn’t have been found out yet as he shuffled to face Holmes. He was just a middle-aged man with a limp who was nervous to be in the home of a rentboy.

Twirling the cigarette in his fingers, Holmes stared at John, his eyes exploring every inch, and John had never felt so exposed. He held completely still, shoulders pulled back and down, head high, chin jutted, and he stared right back into those sparkling eyes.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. You can go now.” John heard the distant sound of stairs creaking as Holmes pushed his cigarette back into the pack and shoved the whole shebang back into the skull. His eyes never left John’s. Glancing to John’s cane, he said, “You don’t walk like someone accustomed to using a cane, but your injury isn’t new.”

John took a breath through his nose. “No, it’s not.”

Holmes pressed his hands together and slipped them under his chin. “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“Sorry”--John readjusted his weight among his cane and legs--”how did you know that?”

“So I’m right. Which is it? Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John cleared his throat. “Afghanistan.”

Holmes stroked the sides of his index fingers down his mouth before settling his hands back under his chin. “And you were invalided out because of an injury.”

“Yes.” John pressed his lips together and glanced down before he could catch himself. How was Holmes doing this? It’s like he was being flayed by Holmes’s eyes, and what else would he be able to find under John’s skin? He snapped his gaze back to Holmes’s face.

“But the injury wasn’t in your leg.”

“No. It was in my--”

Holmes threw up his hand in a halt position. “Don’t tell me.”

John’s jaw clacked shut even as his brows furrowed. What a strange bloke. What a strange, fascinating, enigmatic, completely gorgeous man. John had once stood at attention, getting dressed down in a Colonel’s office for some perceived misconduct. The yelling had lasted a good twenty minutes, and he ended up jankers for two weeks, but here in this biohazard of a kitchen was the most intimidated he ever felt. This man had peeled him open with just a few words, and John was rooted in place, unable to reconcile the urge to flee before he was found out and the desire to stay and see where this went. This man was wasted as a rentboy.

Holmes crossed the handful of feet between them, finally wrapping his dressing gown around himself and tying it properly. His gaze roamed over John, his chest, his face, all the way down to his feet, and without saying another word, he laid his palm flat on John’s chest just above his left pectoral muscle. John’s breath hitched.

“Am I warm?”

John’s gaze fell from Holmes’s eyes to his mouth, feeling his heart rate increase unders Holmes’s palm. As his tongue pulled at this bottom lip, John fought the urge to kiss Holmes, still unsure of what all this was supposed to be. And that wasn’t why John was here.

As John’s gaze snapped back to Holmes’s eyes, he grasped two of Holmes’s fingers and pushed them towards the scar, just off-center of where Holmes’s palm was. Holmes traced his fingertips around the edge of the scar, tracking each nuance in the tissue despite the thick fabric between them. Next, Holmes pressed his thumb against the scar as one might if they were trying to work a knot from a muscle, and John grunted at the neuropathic ache of it. He licked his lips.

Holmes bit into his bottom one. “Is there an exit wound?”

John turned his back to Holmes and slipped out of his jacket, grateful for the excuse to stop watching Holmes’s intense gaze, his lip trapped between teeth. “Between the fifth and sixth ribs, about four centimeters to the left of my spine.”

Holmes examined the tissue there in much the same way as he did the front, exploring the longer, ragged edges before tracing every bump and line in the scar tissue, raising goosebumps along John’s spine. Holmes spent more time pressing at the larger area of flesh, making John rock forward until Holmes wrapped his other hand over John’s shoulder, holding him in place.

A pleasant ache spread from his scar, and John closed his eyes, letting his head fall forward. He could hear the swish of silk and the even deepness of Holmes’s breathing. He felt the rough pad of Holmes’s thumb on his neck, just above the collar of his jumper. Despite the strange intimacy of letting a stranger touch a scar that only medical professionals and John’s sister had seen, that square half-inch was the only contact of skin on skin they’d had.

The thumb drew forward, scraping a nail against the side of John’s neck, and before he could catch himself, John groaned, long and low in his throat. His muscles tensed before he could assure himself that Holmes was trying to elicit this response. It would be more conspicuous if John wasn’t aroused by his touch. 

Holmes gave no indication of hearing John, continuing his rough exploration before laying a palm over the scar and saying, “AK forty-seven.”

John nodded.

“Two-two-three round.”

John’s head snapped up, and he turned his shoulders to look at Holmes, leaving the hand on his scar undisturbed. “That was a guess.”

The corner of Holmes’s mouth twitched. “I never guess.”

“You can’t tell which type of round hit me from a years-old scar.”

“Maybe you can’t.” Holmes dropped his hands from John’s body and backed away.

And John couldn’t help it; he chuckled, even as his body protested the loss of contact. He shuffled to face Holmes, a crooked smile on his face.

Holmes settled his bum against the back of the armchair. “It nicked your spine.”

“Yes.”

“And you think that’s why you have a limp.”

“It is.” He set the cane aside in favor of leaning on the table.

Holmes shook his head. “It’s not.”

John scoffed. “It’s not?”

“No, that one’s psychosomatic, I’m afraid.” He jolted up from the chair and walkedaround the other side of the kitchen, rubbing his hands together. “Just give me a moment to get dressed, and we’ll talk about your case.”

Without further ceremony, Holmes strode into what John assumed was the bedroom and shut the door.

John stared at it, his thoughts moving through the molasses of an erotic daze. Was he meant to follow Holmes into the bedroom? John’s foot lurched forward before he could stop it, and he caught himself on a chair. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t been prepared for the possibility of fucking his mark--it wouldn’t be the first time--but he wasn’t prepared to want it, to come to the verge of seeking it out before he could determine whether it was necessary.

And here he was, wasting his golden opportunity. Over the promise of a shag. A shag that Holmes had referred to as a case. That he had to get dressed for.

Had John just stumbled into some sort of S&M parlour?

John shook his head, pushing away thoughts of cuffs and gags and skin still rosy from impact. He just needed to plant the camera and get out. _Don’t stick around and play this out. Stick to the rules._

John glanced around the room, eyes widening at the sight of a dusty set of bookshelves in the corner by the window. Those would be perfect.

Looking over his shoulder and listening for a sign that Holmes was about to come out, he fished the tiny camera from his pocket and peeled the barrier from the sticky back. He hurried--as well as he could through the clutter--across the sitting room and pressed the back of the camera to the end of the middle shelf. He put it far enough back that it would be hidden in shadow from the sun or the kitchen light, but it would still give him a clear view of the sitting room, the bedroom and bathroom doors, and part of the kitchen.

Once the camera was in place and the waste tucked away, John left, trotting down the stairs, out the door, and as quickly as possible out of sight of the flat. He was halfway to the hotel before his adrenaline rush receded enough for him to remember his cane.

_Sloppy. Get your shit together, Watson._

***

Back at the hotel, John rushed to the tablet lying on the bedside table, woke it up, and typed the IP address of the camera into his internet browser.

After a moment of waiting for the hotel’s free wifi to catch up, John saw the image of the flat come into view. He wished he had angled the camera a bit lower, but he was still able to see most of the flat. He could view a sliver of the bedroom through the open door and about half of the kitchen table--including his cane--as well as most of the sitting room. Only very edge of the sofa and the area by the windows remained out of John’s sight. Holmes walked along the visible side of the kitchen table, sliding his fingers across the tabletop as he went.

Holmes wore an impeccable slim suit, the buttons screaming across his chest. His feet were bare.

He stopped at the end of the table, plucking John’s cane from where John had propped it, and flicked it upwards until he held it like a baton, his eyes scrutinizing each inch. John swallowed around the boulder forming in his throat. He could only hope that there wasn’t anything damning Holmes could glean from that hunk of aluminum.

“Mrs. Hudson?” Holmes shouted.

John heard an indistinct feminine sound.

“Did you see the man who was here leave?”

Mrs. Hudson’s head crested the top of the stairs, followed by the rest of her. “No, dear. Is he gone?”

Holmes swished the tip of the cane downwards, holding it like a epee against an invisible foe. He stared down the length of it. “Yes.”

“Pity. He seemed like such a nice man.”

Holmes grunted. “Do you have anything in?”

“No. I really need to do the shopping. I might have a biscuit or two.”

He sighed. “I suppose takeaway will do.”

“It’s so good to see you eating.” She squeezed Holmes’s forearm before heading for the stairs. “You’re much too skinny. Is there anything you need at the shops?”

“No.” Holmes propped the cane by the front door. “Milk.”

***

John watched Holmes sit at the cleared space of the coffee table and eat about a quarter of an order of what looked like pad thai. Tossing the plastic fork into the box and shutting the lid, Holmes wiped his lips with a paper napkin. He took the box to the fridge, shoved it in, and pulled out a plastic bag, dropping it on the table. It made a wet squelch as it landed.

Next, Holmes disappeared into the other side of the kitchen and reappeared with a stack of petri dishes and a pair of kitchen tongs. He set the dishes in a neat row before reaching again for the bag. After grabbing the kitchen tongs and clicking them together a few times, he untied the bag. Out of the bag, in between the heads of the tongs, was…

No, that couldn’t be right. Was that a toe?

Holmes grabbed a series of toes, placing one into each of the dishes. Then he grabbed a roll of masking tape and a pen from the table, tearing off strips, sticking them to the table by the dishes, and writing on them. He disappeared into the kitchen again, coming back with a pipette and a stopwatch.

John watched in abject fascination as Holmes dripped something from the pipette and started the timer. John couldn’t see what was happening to the toes, but Holmes seemed quite satisfied with the results.

Just exactly who had John been asked to kill? And where did he get toes?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, many thanks to emmagrant01 for the beta. I hope you guys enjoyed it! (This chapter is one of my favorites.)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The support behind John’s back disappeared. His hands flew out to grab hold of something, anything, but in that moment, he was yanked back by his jacket. The unseen attacker heaved John back and to his left. John caught the edge of the door with his boot. But it was no use. The smooth leather slipped against the metal, and the slamming door shoved his foot aside as his attacker caught John under the arms, pinning John’s elbows behind his back. And with John thrown off balance, the attacker--Holmes--was able to throw him over.

John followed the swish of Holmes’s coat through the streets of London. The camera hadn’t been in the flat for more than 24 hours, but it confirmed what John had already suspected. The flat was the wrong place to finish the job. Even the IV drugs weren't the opening he expected as he hadn't actually seen Holmes use any. And judging by the contents of his refrigerator and his nil eating habits, poison wasn’t a good option either. If only the specs of the job had been more permissive, he could have done in Holmes days ago. He was generally loath to trail a mark; he preferred less risk, but needs must.

When John saw Holmes in the streets last, he had been a flurry of movement and wool, his long legs striding at capacity, playing chicken with the other pedestrians. So the way Holmes was walking now surprised John. He strolled, really, glancing around at the people and the sites like he was a tourist.

Even with the limp, John wasn’t used to walking this slowly, and Holmes had kept the glacial pace for several minutes. John’s hip and thigh ached, and he wished he’d had his cane. Instead, he fetched a pill from his pocket, broke off half, and chewed it as he walked.

He kept his distance--Holmes coming to an intersection just a few seconds after John crossed theprevious one. With Holmes’s eerie ability to just know things, he couldn’t risk getting too close, and besides that, his limp had become so pronounced over the past minutes as to become conspicuous. He’d already caught several glances from other pedestrians.

Next, Holmes turned down a narrow street, and when John reached it, he found it empty of people. He watched Holmes stride down the pavement, his pace more consistent with what John would expect. John waited, peering around the corner, until Holmes cleared the intersection, trotting across the street to a low building.

John rushed down the street as well as he could, reaching the end in time to see Holmes type a code into a pad by a small door in the stone building dominating the view. He walked in, letting the door shut behind him.

Left with little other choice, as an ambulance station stood in the way of any reasonable vantage point, John ducked into the small cafe on the corner and ordered a coffee. Grabbing a free paper, he sat at one of the tables on the pavement and waited.

***

About twenty minutes later, John saw Holmes round the corner of the ambulance station, a small cooler in hand. From behind the paper, he saw Holmes rush past, glancing at the cafe out of the corner of his eye.

John folded the paper, dropped it on the table, and followed.

Holmes was back in the mode as John first saw him. John had barely made it around the corner before Holmes was whizzing to the left at the end of the street. In a rush, John made it to the corner and turned left only to have lost sight of Holmes. No curly head or flapping coat to be seen. No jostled people or paused pedestrians wondering at the man running through the streets with a cooler marked as a biohazard. And the road split just a handful of yards away.

But--John’s gaze descended to the pavement--there was the cooler, askew with the pavement, jutting out from a shallow alcove. He walked up to it, stopping a few feet away. He glanced into the alcove. It appeared to be a door. A seam ran down plain blue metal, hinges on one side, but he could see no way to get in. He pushed at each side in turn, finding no budge. He tried to press his fingers between the sides, see if he could pry it open, but of course, he couldn’t. So, Holmes couldn’t well have escaped through it. Which left one apparent conclusion: he had been made, and Holmes dropped the cooler in his haste to lose John. _Fuck._

John raised his fist, ready to pound at the door until his arms hurt, but he stopped himself just short. Now was not the time to let anger get the best of him. So, he forced his fingers open, stretching them out as he turned towards the pavement. He took a deep breath and pushed it out through his nose. This was the reason he avoided trailing marks. And now, in the best case scenario, John’s timeline had moved up to immediately. At worst, cops were already on their way. Or, the man did have a penchant for human organs. For all John knew, Holmes was scheming John’s demise at that very moment.

He leaned against the door, the cold metal on his back bringing him back into his body, and let out one more long breath. He needed to make a plan. First things first, he needed to assess the risk. There was still the possibility that Holmes hadn’t found him out, and if so, there might still be a possibility for John to shake it off if he kept playing the client angle. So, back to the hotel to check the--

The support behind John’s back disappeared. His hands flew out to grab hold of something, anything, but in that moment, he was yanked back by his jacket. The unseen attacker heaved John back and to his left. John caught the edge of the door with his boot. But it was no use. The smooth leather slipped against the metal, and the slamming door shoved his foot aside as his attacker caught John under the arms, pinning John’s elbows behind his back. And with John thrown off balance, the attacker--Holmes--was able to throw him over.

Holmes fell with John, holding John’s arms. John lifted and turned his head, narrowly avoiding a collision between skull and concrete, but a hand shoved it down.

John started to roll, to throw off Holmes or at least free his arms, but he stopped himself, putting up token resistance instead. He wasn’t supposed to be a dangerous man. He was just a regular bloke who regretted chickening out the day before. Though the prostitute theory was looking less likely. Unless he catered to a population that was into some really weird stuff.

Holmes’s knee dug into John’s back, the arm wrapped around John’s elbows pushing forwards to put strain on his shoulders, and he whined at the pain, craning his head against Holmes’s palm in an apparent attempt to relieve some of the pressure. Using the opportunity, John checked his surroundings. They were in some sort of hallway, concrete floors and walls dotted with a handful of utilitarian doorways, large metal doors at each end.

“You’re following me,” Holmes said.

John shook his head, putting on his best facade of panic.

“Don’t play coy.” Holmes’s lifted his hand off John’s head, reaching between their bodies to get into John’s jacket pocket. He pulled out the half pill and slipped it into his own pocket.

“You don’t understand. I didn’t mean to-- I can explain--”

“Did Mycroft hire you?” He reached into John’s rear jeans pocket.

John tensed. If Sherlock found the pistol, the jig was up. “Who?”

Holmes’s hand flew from John’s pocket to his hair, yanking on it to pull John’s head back. He leaned down close, his face just inches from John’s, his kneecap digging into the small of John’s back.

“Don’t play coy,” he rumbled.

“I’m sorry,” John cried, his gaze falling to Sherlock’s lips. “I didn’t mean to. I just-- Please don’t hurt me.”

Holmes dropped John’s head, propping his hand on the ground by John’s shoulder instead, and went still. From the corner of his eye, John could see Holmes chewing on his bottom lip, a far-off look on his face. What the hell was he doing?

Holmes scoffed. “You mean to tell me you’re a fan?”

John’s brows furrowed--a fan?--but he nodded. Yes, here was his out.

But then Holmes looked him straight in the eye and asked, “Which type?”

John’s brows furrowed. “What?”

“Shh.” Holmes covered John’s mouth. “There are two types of fans, so the question is whether you want to fuck or kill.”

John tensed, his body poised to make a move, his nerves jolting.

Holmes’s knee slid down John’s back until it pressed against John’s inner thighs. John acquiesced to the pressure, spreading his legs to allow Sherlock egress. Best to look like the first type of fan. Then, Sherlock lowered himself until he could prop himself on his elbow with John held in place by his bodyweight, arms still chicken-winged.

When John felt hot breath on his cheek, he craned his neck, looking as well as he could at Holmes’s face. John’s heart rate jumped. Holmes’s face was nearly in contact with John’s, their noses just millimeters from brushing each other. Holmes’s breath came in aborted pants, making John’s breath hitch. And as Holmes tilted his head, mouth falling open, John licked his lips.

Before their lips could touch, Sherlock paused, whispering, “Tell me your name.”

“John,” he breathed, stretching for Sherlock’s mouth.

But Holmes pulled back, pushing himself up and back into the original pin. Damn it, when would Holmes buy into the act and let John leave? This position was getting damn uncomfortable.

“My first instinct,” Holmes said, ”is that you’re the first type, but then why rush out of my flat just when I had invited you to stay?”

Laying his head against the concrete, John closed his eyes and shrugged the best he could. “This hurts,” he complained. “Would you let me up?”

“No.” Holmes reached between them. “I’m not satisfied yet.”

At the feel of Holmes’s hand near his front pocket, John’s eyes flew open. He planted his foot on the wall and shoved. His body rolled away from Holmes, taking him with it. John landed half on top of Holmes, elbowing him in the ribs. John scrambled to his feet, but Holmes caught his ankle, yanking it backwards.

John caught himself in a push-up position just as Holmes shoved his shoulder into John’s bad hip. John howled in pain, falling to his right knee. With the turn of his body, he threw a punch. It landed on Holmes’s cheekbone, and John punched again.

Holmes’s hands flew up to protect his face, but just as quickly, one of them flew back out, grabbing a fistful of John’s love handles and twisting. Instinctively, John’s hands flew to protect himself, and in that moment Holmes took the opening, headbutting John.

Hot, stinging pain bloomed from John’s nose. The world went askew, refusing to right itself, and now John had to fight two Holmes. They came at him from different directions, picking him up by the jacket and throwing him face-first against the wall. John felt the weight of a body slam against him, and his arms were chicken-winged again.

He blinked several times before his vision coalesced, though the floor still lurched and rolled underneath him. Holmes’s hand shoved into John’s front pocket, and paused when it hit the holster of John’s pistol. The hand withdrew, tracing the shape of the pistol through John’s jeans. Holmes’s thumb and index finger dipped underneath John’s waistband, feeling the surface of the holster and pistol grip, and John’s breath hitched. Suddenly the pain in his head and hip didn’t seem so immediate. Holmes’s fingers were warm against his skin, the rough pads of his fingers scraping over the sensitive area in the hollow of a hip bone.

And Holmes wasn’t running away. He wasn’t trying turn the gun on John or press for information under threat of death. He was just standing there, holding John in place with his body, the two fingers sweeping over that tiny area of John’s skin. John’s heart pounded in its trap between wall and body, and his whole body tensed with the effort not to arch himself into Holmes’s touch. His chest pressed against the wall so he wouldn’t press his back to Holmes’s chest.

“Ruger,” Holmes huffed, his panting breath John’s only reassurance that he wasn’t alone in his inappropriate arousal. “Compact revolver. Three-eighty.” His middle finger joined his others. “Quite practical, for certain uses.”

“Yes.” John’s hips stuttered as Holmes’s middle finger nudged against the waistband of his pants, just the fingernail sliding underneath and scratching its way back out. The arm around John’s elbows lowered, easing some of the tension in his shoulders, and Holmes’s head dropped to John’s shoulder, his nose resting above John’s clavicle.

“You’ve killed with this.” His palm pressed to the crest of John’s hip bone, guiding it back.“After leaving the army.”

John shook his head.

Holmes’s hand splayed across John’s belly, pinky and ring fingers still resting on John’s holster. Only his middle finger breached the boundary of John’s waistband, the tip coming to rest just below John’s navel. “Planning to do it again?”

John swallowed, licked his lips. “No.”

“Hmm.” Holmes shook his head as his index finger joined the middle and slid down to tuck into the elastic of John’s pants. Letting his lips touch John’s neck, he asked, “Hoping I would catch you?”

“N-” John started, but the hand on his belly flew to his mouth, all four fingers pressed against his lips. Unsure whether to bite the fingers or put them in his mouth, he stilled.

Holmes’s head popped up. “I don’t actually need you to talk.”

John flinched and curled his fingers into the fabric of Holmes’s shirt, gripping it tight. Sherlock’s hips darted forward at the sudden contact, and John found himself rocking back to meet them.

Holmes watched John’s mouth with hooded eyes. He slid his index finger across John’s dry bottom lip. “Were you planning to kill me?”

John’s mouth fell open as he met Holmes’s gaze.

“Why haven’t you done it? You’ve had ample opportunity,” Holmes said as he tapped at the corner of John’s mouth.

_I should get out of here_ , John thought. _While he still thinks I’m a crazy stalker._ But his body wouldn’t listen, tongue darting out to the rough pad of Holmes’s finger.

“Not a crime of passion, then.”

John clenched his jaw, his fingers grasping even tighter in Holmes’s shirt, which jerked Holmes even closer. Hot breath raised goose bumps on John’s scalp for several seconds before either of them dared move.

Finally, Holmes’s hand wrapped loosely around John’s throat, and his thumb pressed up on John’s jaw. As John tilted his head, Holmes shifted towards John’s side enough to allow him to look directly in John’s eyes. Once again John felt flayed, but he determined not to let it show, staring Holmes down with a hard expression. However, his body wouldn’t listen quite as well. His fingers gripped tighter in Holmes’s shirt, yanking him forward by the stomach until his entire body curled around John from calf to shoulder, their hands trapped tight between their bodies.

“Tell me, John,” Holmes panted. “Is killing a hobby for you or a profession?”

_Oh, shit._ Adrenaline raced through John’s bloodstream, bringing with it a tide of panic, and John jerked his whole body down.

He crouched, releasing Holmes’s shirt only when his arms ripped from Holmes’s grip. Holmes’s torso jerked forward. His forehead cracked into the wall, and John drove his heel into Holmes’s shin. Holmes scrabbled for balance, and John scrambled to his feet. Knuckles screaming, John reached for his gun. He spun to face Holmes, pistol at the ready.

Holmes crouched, attempting to stand, one hand on the floor and the other on the wall. He paused at the sight of the pistol’s barrel, and John kicked his shoulder. Holmes’s hand slipped. He hit the floor.

John jumped on him, one knee on the kicked shoulder and the other foot on Holmes’s other elbow. He pressed the muzzle to the underside of Holmes’s jaw. His finger poised on the trigger.

Holmes swallowed. He closed his eyes.

John stared at the still, prone figure underneath him. Just a little squeeze, and this could be all over. His hand trembled.

“Well?” Holmes asked.

John swallowed past a sudden lump. Why wasn’t he doing it? _Just squeeze the damn trigger, John._

He steeled himself, pushing the barrel even harder against the soft flesh there. Sherlock swallowed, making the gun twitch in his hand. And John still couldn’t get his hand to shoot the gun.

“Fuck,” he screamed, yanking the gun away from Holmes’s throat. He clenched his fists, his vision tunnelled with rage. And when Sherlock tried to push up against John’s knee, John’s pistol hand flew out and clocked Holmes on the back of the head.

Holmes slumped to the floor, not quite unconscious. For a moment, John watched the slow up and down of Holmes’s eyelids, his failed attempts to lift his head, but John couldn’t let this scene drag on. And he couldn’t trust himself to kill.

So he ran.

He barrelled through the door, slamming it into the wall outside, tripping on the cooler, sending its contents onto the pavement. He slipped on a leaking bag, stumbled, and sprinted around the corner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This update is a little late due to Christmas, and next week's will probably be the same way. I hope this helps fill the weird doldrums between Christmas and New Year's, and I hope you had a happy holiday.
> 
> As always, many thanks to emmagrant01 for the beta.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He kicked open the bathroom door, making it bounce off the wall and slam closed again. Taking a deep breath, he grasped the door handle and turned it, opening the door like a proper human being even if every single muscle was tense with either pain or anger.
> 
> God, what a fucking disaster. Not only did he leave evidence behind, but when he had his opportunity to finish the job, he’d chickened out. He was being sloppy, and for what? Because he wanted to shag his mark? It was the kind of thing he laughed at in the movies. Absolutely pathetic.

John hobbled into his hotel room nearly two hours later, his head and hip screaming bloody murder. And fucking Holmes had fucking stolen the other half of his fucking pill.

He kicked open the bathroom door, making it bounce off the wall and slam closed again. Taking a deep breath, he grasped the door handle and turned it, opening the door like a proper human being even if every single muscle was tense with either pain or anger.

God, what a fucking disaster. Not only did he leave evidence behind, but when he had his opportunity to finish the job, he’d chickened out. He was being sloppy, and for what? Because he wanted to shag his mark? It was the kind of thing he laughed at in the movies. Absolutely pathetic.

John propped his fists on the bathroom counter, blinking at his swimming reflection and forcing himself to breathe more normally. Now was not the time for rage or panic or self-loathing. Now was the time to make a plan.

Once John could school his breathing into something of a steady state, he leaned forward to study his reflection, covering one eye at a time. He probably had a mild concussion, but _fuck it_. He wrenched open his bottle of painkillers, taking out two and swallowing them with a swig of water from the faucet.

He had to quit. That was all there was. If he were a prouder man, he might stick to the job just to prove he could do it, but that way lay a life in prison or worse. Likely much, much worse. Sometimes, jobs went bad. He couldn’t be perfect every time.

Still trying to convince himself that his errors didn’t represent a fundamental flaw, he eased himself down to sit on the edge of the bed. He picked up the room’s phone, dialed, and listened to it ring.

“Jernigan and Murphy.”

“I need to speak with Mr. Moran.”

“I’m sorry, sir. He’s in a meeting. May I take a message?”

John pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting back a wave of nausea. “Tell him it’s John. He’ll want to take the call.”

“Oh. I would, sir, but the meeting is outside the office.”

John clenched his teeth. “Just, when he gets back, tell him John called, and it’s urgent.”

“Very well. Where can he reach you?”

“He knows the number.”

“Sir, there’s no need to ye--”

John slammed down the receiver, causing a single tinny tone to sound, setting John’s teeth on edge. He rubbed his hands down his jeans until his hands turned red, his body on a highwire between the need to flee and the need to notify his employer. Disappearing with no notice was just not on.

_Answer your fucking phone, Moran._

John surged up on a wave of adrenaline, ready to pack his bags and run, but he stumbled, catching himself on the wall as his vision went momentarily dark and his stomach lurched. Right, he had a concussion. Best to take it easy, not that it was possible. But, ice. He could put some ice on his head.

He snatched up the ice bucket, and with a pointed look at the phone, he rushed out of his room. Whether it was the painkillers or the adrenaline or something else, the tension in John’s hip started to ease by the time he re-entered his hotel room.

As John was dumping ice onto a flannel, the phone rang, and he hurried over, snatching up the receiver.

“Moran.”

No answer returned.

John listened, pulled the receiver from his ear, looked at it, and put it back on his ear. “Moran?”

“I’m afraid not.”

 _Jesus fuck._ John sank to the bed and held the ice-filled flannel to his head. “Sherlock,” he gusted.

“You’ve been a naughty boy, John.”

 _Oh God, here it comes. He probably has the police on the way._ “Have I?”

“You planted a camera in my flat.”

John leaped from the bed and grabbed his tablet, unlocking it before he could get a proper hold on it. "How did you get this number?”

Early-afternoon light streamed through the windows in Holmes’s flat, but he was largely in shadow, lit only by ambient light. His grey trousers blended with his chair so that John couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. And Holmes’s white shirt and pale skin made his torso stand out in sharp relief to the rest of the room, his long neck and the open vee of his shirt drawing John’s eyes down. To where Sherlock held John’s cane, the handle resting on his inner thigh and the shaft drawing a diagonal line between his wide-spread legs.

“It’s amazing where a little investigation and a little charm can get you.” Holmes bit his lip, looking abashed. “I’m so sorry to bother you, but I met this bloke the other day. He told me he was staying here, but I can’t remember his room number. Could you help me? Looking like someone beat the shit out of you doesn't hurt either.”

Holmes leveled the camera with a harsh stare, and John’s heart dropped into his stomach. “What do you want?”

Holmes shrugged.

“Is it money?”

“I just want to live,” he teased.

And there it was. Holmes had him figured out. He was officially fucked. He thumped his fist against his thigh and swallowed. How much time did he have?

“How long ago did you call the police?”

“Why would I do that?”

John’s mind stuttered to a stop, all his facial muscles dropping. He blinked, the question forming on his lips for a moment before he asked, “Why?”

“If I were interested in having my words repeated back to me, I’d buy a parakeet.”

“Fine, so what is it really?”

Holmes shrugged again, cradling the cane between his hands and letting them drift up and down, fingertips sliding against aluminum. John heard his breath, watched the deep rise and fall of his chest until his gaze settled on Holmes’s long fingers. John’s stare rose and fell with the fingers, and after a moment, he glanced up to see Holmes’s eyes staring into the camera, a knowing smirk on his face.

After too long with no response from Sherlock, shrinking under the scrutiny of a man who couldn’t even see him, John said, “Look. I get it. You have me by the balls, so what the fuck do you want?”

Sherlock set the cane aside and laid his hand over his stomach, flicking at a shirt button. “People don’t surprise me.”

John almost laughed. “Well, that’s great for you, but I’d really rather be getting to the point.”

“Don’t you see, John? That is the point.” He pushed up on the arms of the chair, phone cradled by his chin, and pulled up his feet. John was sure he was about to leap from it, but instead, he put his feet on the cushion and perched on the back of the chair.

“I-- I don’t understand.”

“That’s because you’re not paying attention!” he said in a rush. “You kill for a living, but you’ve squandered two opportunities to finish me off. Why?”

John swallowed, his mind blanking of any reasonable excuse. “I--”

“I ran your fingerprints and found six potential partial matches but not a single definitive match, and two of those had ballistics data consistent with a Ruger LCR. All cold cases. All but one with organized crime connections. Therefore, a hired gun for crime syndicate, who is very good at his job. I’d estimate that you’ve killed at least a dozen people without getting caught. Am I right so far?”

John’s throat closed up. What was this? Was he being taunted? Blackmailed? Was he just a mouse for Sherlock to bounce around before he snapped John’s neck?

“Oh.” Sherlock plopped back down in the chair, waving off John’s silence. “I deleted those case files. Of course, someone truly determined could still get ahold of the physical copies, but none of those berks would ever see the connection.”

John sputtered. “Why would you do that?”

Holmes’s gaze snapped to the camera, his expression stern. “Have you not been listening?”

John huffed. God, he was getting tired. “I thought I was.”

“People don’t surprise me.”

“I still don’t understand.”

“That’s because you’re an idiot.” He threw his legs over the side of his chair, tucking one hand between his thighs. “Now, am I right?”

“Yes,” John croaked. He cleared his throat. “Yes.”

“And yet, you allowed me to touch you. Let me memorize a memorable feature. You left evidence behind. You allowed me to trap you. You let me search you and question you when you could have gotten away at any time. You had me at your mercy, but here I am. You’re not this sloppy, John. So what are you doing?”

“Listen”--John pinched the bridge of his nose--”I’m off the job, so you can stop playing with me. All right?”

“Oh.” Sherlock threw his legs from the side of the chair and propped his elbows on his knees. He shuffled his arse against the cushion, eyes glittering. “That’s disappointing.”

“What, really? Most people would find that a relief.”

“Oh, I’m sure your employer would simply send someone else, but they won’t be nearly as interesting.”

“Well, I’m glad you find this fascinating.”

“Aren’t you at least a bit intrigued?”

John laughed. “By what?”

“By yourself. The reason behind your missteps.”

“Oh, no. I know exactly why that happened.”

Sherlock ran his thumb over his bottom lip. “And why is that?”

John froze. His heart leapt, and he swallowed. “You know what? Nevermind. Let’s just pretend none of this happened, if that’s all right with you. Have a nice life. Good luck scaring away the next one.”

John took a deep breath and moved to hang up the phone, pulling it tentatively back to his ear when Sherlock leapt from the chair and strode over until his face dominated the frame.

“You know I’ll just call you back until you answer. Good luck getting any sleep.”

John clacked the receiver against the center of his forehead before bringing it back to his ear. “Then what is it that you want?”

“Who hired you?”

“Nice try.”

Sherlock smirked. “Moran. Is he the employer or an intermediary?”

John clenched his jaw.

“I have access to Scotland Yard’s criminal database.”

“Yes, you’ve made that clear.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “And I still haven’t heard a thank you.”

“Oh, yes, I’m simply over the moon that you’ve decided to make me your plaything. However can I show my gratitude?”

Sherlock bit his bottom lip, a smile quirking the corner. “How about a kiss?”

John rubbed the telephone against his temple. “Great. That’s just great. Have any other revelations you’d like to torture me with?”

“Not at the moment.”

John stared into eyes that could only be described as delighted for at least a full minute. "Who are you?"

"Shouldn't you know that already?"

"Maybe. I don't know." John's eyelids drooped as the last vestige of pain finally dissipated from his hip. "I keep my distance."

"Are you drunk?"

John shook his head. "Pills."

"Don't you have a concussion?"

John blinked until the tablet came back in focus. "Don't you?"

Sherlock chuckled. "Better living through chemistry."

"Mm hm." John nodded. "What?"

"Don't go to sleep, John."

John's head settled on the pillow, and he rolled to the side, reaching to hang up the phone. "Okay."

"For God's sa--" Sherlock’s voice cut off as the receiver tumbled into place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, many thanks to emmagrant01 for the beta.
> 
> (And sorry I'm so terrible at replying to comments.)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John stretched his neck. “It was an emergency.”
> 
> “You’re still alive, so it couldn’t have been that bad.”

John sprang to life, half-reclined on the bed and half-poised to leap out of it, at a noise. What noise? Where was it coming from?

The phone rang, stabbing through his temples, and he snatched it up.

"Sherlock," he said in a rush.

"Sorry?"

_Oh, no._ "Moran."

“Watson.” Moran paused. “My secretary gave me a message that you called. I know I told you only to use that number in an emergency.”

John stretched his neck. “It was an emergency.”

“You’re still alive, so it couldn’t have been that bad.”

“Yeah, ta for that.”

Moran sighed. “What’s the emergency, Watson?”

Someone knocked on the door, making John flinch. “I don't-- I don't know where to start.”

“Well, then thank you for wasting my time. I don’t plan to hear from you again until it’s finis--”

“I didn’t say I was done talking.”

“Then what is it?” Moran spat.

John propped his elbow on his knee, holding his forehead in the palm of his hand. He rubbed his thumb against his temple. “I have to quit this one. I’ve spent about a thousand pounds on equipment and accommodations, but I can drop what’s left now and return the balance in a few weeks.”

Moran answered with silence. Three more raps sounded in the room.

John waited for the silence to break on either side of the phone, but when it didn’t, he asked, “Are you still there?”

“Yes. Just a moment.”

John waited. Three more knocks, a bit louder. If it were the police or hotel staff, they would have said so by now. John clenched his fists and closed his eyes to take a deep breath.

“Those terms are unacceptable," Moran finally returned.

“Oh. Well, I’d rather not access any of my accounts until I can be sure the heat is off, but I’ll see what I can do.”

“You misunderstand. You’re not quitting.”

“No,” John replied, gripping the edge of the bedside table in his fist. “That’s not how this works. If I need to quit, I quit. Neither of us need me in jail.”

“You won’t go to prison.”

John went stiff. His interloper knocked again, this time saying, "John," in an all too familiar voice.

“And just what the hell is that supposed to mean?” John snapped.

“It means just what you think it means. Or do I need to spell it out for you?”

John’s mouth stood agape, and then a single laugh popped from his throat. “You must be joking. After everything I’ve done for you.”

“For which you were amply compensated. Those are the terms, Watson. We’ll expect a final resolution of the matter within the week.”

"Wake up, John," Sherlock shouted.

John sniffed. “Do you still expect it to look like an accident?”

“I have faith in your skills. You’ll hear from us soon.”

And with that, the line went dead.

John slammed the phone into its cradle, leaping from the bed and stomping to the door. He threw the door open and stood in the doorframe, ready with a shout or a curse or a fist to the face.

But before John's mouth could form a word, Sherlock ducked under his arm and into the room. "Oh, good. You're awake."

John huffed, letting the door close behind him as he spun around. "What are you doing here?"

"You know better than to sleep so soon after sustaining a concussion, John."

"So, what, you're here to check on me?"

Sherlock flopped onto the bed, coat and all. "Something like that."

"Get out."

Sherlock tutted, sweeping John's tablet from the bedside table. "So rude to your guests."

"You're not my guest." John snatched the tablet away, nodding towards the door. "Now get out."

"So restrained," Sherlock marveled. "I'm surprised you haven't resorted to violence yet."

"You know why I haven't."

Sherlock smirked. "Bad form to harm your mark in your hotel room, is it?"

John clenched his jaw, bouncing a fist against his thigh.

Sherlock flapped the sides of his coat aside, crossing his legs at the ankle. "I believe I'll be staying right here."

"Un-fucking-believable," John muttered, pacing the length of the bed.

"Besides, someone needs to be here to make sure you don't fall asleep."

John spun on Sherlock, barely able to keep his voice below a shout. "Why do you care?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I believe we've already been over this."

"Is this a game to you?"

Sherlock's nose scrunched as he cocked his head. "A bit."

"You've got to be"--John rubbed a hand over his face--"We are talking about life and death."

"I thought you quit."

"Yeah, well, so did I."

"Ah. So Mister Moran wasn't keen on the idea."

"That's one way to put it, yeah."

Sherlock kicked up his legs and swung them off the bed, sitting up with his knees spread. With John centered between them.

John swallowed.

"Interesting fellow, Moran. He's an intellectual property lawyer, you know. Not the usual intermediary for criminal activity."

As Sherlock nudged his knee, John blew out a long sigh. "Is that so."

"It's a clever move for his employer. Moran has no public ties to him, so it's harder to trace one to the other. Can't believe I didn't think of it myself."

"Thinking of getting into contract killing?"

Sherlock smirked, chuckled as he shrugged out of his coat. He stood, sweeping the coat up off the bed, and as he walked by, his upper arm dragged against John's chest. Turning to face John, Sherlock hung his coat in the closet and shrugged out of his suit jacket, hanging that up as well.

Once his outer wear was all put away, he finally replied, "Not exactly."

Sherlock leaned his shoulder against the wall, undoing one cuff and rolling it up. What the hell was John supposed to do with this? His gun still rested in its holster. With the twitch of a finger, he could end it right here. It would be so easy, if he could actually trust himself to do it.

But that wasn’t really what John wanted. He wanted those hands on him. He wanted to strip Sherlock bare, see him trembling and vulnerable. Make him beg.

"Who are you, really?"

Sherlock's head snapped up from watching himself roll his thumb over the crook in his elbow. "What do you mean?"

"Who would want to kill you?"

"It could be any number of people. I've assured the sentencing of dozens of criminal."

John's muscles tensed. "So you're a cop."

"No. Consulting detective. Only one in the world."

"All right, so consult me. What do you think I should do?"

"That would be a conflict of interest."

John's jaw dropped. Was he fucking kidding? He had the means to put John away forever. He could serve John to Moran on a silver platter. Hell, he could have gone for John's gun at any moment, force things to a head. But he just stood there, watching John with an infuriating smirk on his face. John's expression grew stern, dark, and his fists clenched at his sides. He would be damned if he let his dick get in the way of him finishing the job. His fingers twitched at his sides.

Sherlock's gaze raked down John's body. He licked his lips, and arousal zinged through John like he had just grabbed a live wire.

_Fuck it. Get him out of your system._

John charged across the room, grabbing Sherlock by the nape of the neck and yanking him down into a kiss. His fingers clenched in Sherlock's curls, holding Sherlock's head at just the right angle as their mouths crashed together, open mouth against soft lips--vulnerable, pouty lips just begging to be made raw.

John bit Sherlock's bottom lip, tugging at it until Sherlock's mouth opened on a gasp, which John quickly swallowed up, sealing his mouth over Sherlock’s, his tongue insistent in its exploration. Though Sherlock’s mouth was slow to respond, the whine that escaped his throat spoke volumes. For a moment, their only points of contact were their lips and John's punishing grip in Sherlock's hair, but then Sherlock surged forward.

"I was wondering when you'd make a move," Sherlock said against John's mouth, crowding John backwards towards the bed.

John grabbed the waistband of Sherlock's trousers. "Shut up," he growled, spinning Sherlock and tossing him on the bed. Sherlock landed with a bounce, and then John was on him, straddling his hips, holding Sherlock's face in his hands, and diving back in.

Sherlock's mouth was a revelation, all pouty lips and velvet heat, and John had to taste it all. He guided Sherlock's head back until his neck was strained and his mouth ripe for plunder.

"God," John panted, diving in again. "Your mouth is bloody gorgeous."

Sherlock groaned against John's mouth and grabbed his hips, pushing them down against Sherlock's groin. And when John felt the answering hardness there, he couldn't take it any longer. The one part of Sherlock's body that remained completely in John's imagination was made flesh, and he had to see, to feel, to taste. He grabbed Sherlock's belt in both hands, working the buckle free and then ripping open the button underneath.

Without breaking from Sherlock’s lips, his eyes shut tight to savor the sheer excitement, John found the waistband of Sherlock's pants and shoved his hand inside, the silken skin of Sherlock's cock finally under his fingertips. Somehow, he was able to keep his touches light, savor the feeling of Sherlock under his fingers. That was, until Sherlock's hips jerked and an open-mouthed grunt escaped his lips. The hands that were on John's hips flew to the mattress, and Sherlock's hips pressed up, rubbing John's palm against Sherlock's cock.

"That's it," John said, holding his palm firm against Sherlock's thrusting cock. "Take what you need. Fuck my hand."

John kissed Sherlock's lips, bit and sucked and licked, but all Sherlock could do was pant against him, his mouth open and slack, breath forced out with every tip of his hips. God, it was sexy, Sherlock at his mercy, absolutely lost to sensation.

"Is this why you came here? To fuck the man meant to kill you?" John murmured against Sherlock’s lips.

Sherlock shook his head, bumping his nose against John's.

"But you wanted it. Hoped for it."

"Yes," he finally huffed. "More."

With that, John jumped off the bed, grabbing the waistband of Sherlock's pants and yanking them down, taking trousers with them. They halted halfway down Sherlock's bum, the fronts only low enough to free his cock, leaving John's fingers tantalizingly close to furred bollocks and perineum. Sherlock lifted his hips to allow John room to pull them down the rest of the way, but John was entranced. He swept one hand under Sherlock's waistband, stretching it until it creaked from the strain, until finally he could reach his hand underneath, cup Sherlock's balls in his palm, feel Sherlock's inner thighs jump and tremble on either side.

John was distantly aware of the rapid rise and fall of Sherlock's chest as he pushed Sherlock's testicles forward, guiding them out until John could hook Sherlock's pants underneath. And there it was, Sherlock’s cock, hard and flushed and pulsing, standing out in sharp contrast the the monochrome of his clothing. As much as John wanted to strip Sherlock naked, he thought he might like to leave Sherlock like this for a while, trapped inside a tailored suit with only his most vulnerable places exposed, fabric straining as Sherlock's body fought for freedom. Already the buttons of his shirt screamed for mercy with each intake of breath, the fabric of his trousers pulling tight over his thighs.

Hooking his hand into the front of Sherlock's pants to hold them in place, John sat back on his heels and surveyed his treasure. Sherlock, lips red and swollen, hair disheveled, eyes dark, stared at John. His expression strove for passivity, but his body betrayed him. A flush crept down his neck, disappearing behind the shirt straining with each heave of Sherlock's chest. His hips wriggled and writhed, pressing against John's hand and up into nothingness. God, it was gorgeous. Much better than nudity.

John wondered what it would be like to stay just like this, how long it would take until Sherlock begged. He literally had Sherlock by the balls. He could do almost anything, and the power of it was heady, sending a rush of blood to John's groin. No more of Sherlock's taunts, just a desperate expression slowly creeping over his features.

But John's curiosity was not to be sated because his body would not have it. The sight of Sherlock's cock growing visibly harder under his scrutiny was just too much to take. So, he jerked his hand towards himself, making Sherlock's arse slide to the edge of the bed, hanging off just slightly. He pressed his nose to the base of Sherlock's cock, huffing out a hot breath as his tongue snaked out to taste the skin between testes, and Sherlock’s torso dropped to the bed. The sounds that Sherlock made were inhuman, and his hips would have jerked off the bed if only John’s grip on his pants had been less steadfast.

John let his mouth lift higher, his breath warming Sherlock's cock, his tongue flicking against it when it tilted towards him. "I bet I could make you come like this without even touching you."

"Doubtful," Sherlock replied, though the tone of his voice suggested he would very much like to try.

Finally, John reached the tip of Sherlock's cock, lapping up a drop of precome as he asked, "Want me to try?"

"No," Sherlock shouted, his back arching off the bed. "Touch me, John. Please."

John's free hand snaked up Sherlock's thigh as he pressed the tip of his tongue to Sherlock's slit, sweeping down to his frenulum and back up again. "You like this, don't you? Being at my mercy."

"Yes," Sherlock huffed, his hips doing their best to drive his cock into John's mouth, where it was rewarded with the swipe of a tongue. And God, the taste of it, nothing but salt and sex, and John needed more. He held the base of Sherlock's cock steady with his free hand, wetting his lips and rubbing them against the head before letting Sherlock breach.

John heard a long breath leave Sherlock's body, taking all his tension with it, as the corona finally slipped past John's lips. John kept going, sliding down and then pulling back a bit, relishing the feeling of Sherlock's cock pulsing and twitching against his tongue. And he moaned, eliciting a rough echo above him.

"John," Sherlock breathed, his legs restless on either side of John's body, hips pushing the boundaries of what John's hand would allow. The fabric must have been digging into Sherlock's skin, chafing the sensitive skin of his groin, yet his hips still writhed, circled, canted forward, seeking more than John's slow torture. And John thrilled to it, his heart racing and his vision going hazy with arousal. As much as Sherlock enjoyed being at John's mercy, John couldn't imagine it was more than John enjoyed having him there.

Slowly, John pulled off Sherlock's cock, enjoying the keening whine and desperate press of hips. He let Sherlock’s hips rise off the bed, watched him squirm with abject fascination. And while Sherlock’s hips levitated above the bed, John slid Sherlock’s pants and trousers past his knees.

Sherlock’s legs were a blur, kicking off his shoes and attempting to pull out of his trousers, but John wouldn’t let them, keeping Sherlock’s calves trapped together, watching the fabric of his pants pull and strain in his attempts to part his legs.

“So desperate,” John marveled, letting go of Sherlock’s pants. As John stood, Sherlock kicked his clothing aside and went to work on his shirt buttons. John watched as each inch of skin was exposed, standing back until Sherlock pushed his shirt from his shoulders and tossed it aside. Fuck, that body.

Sherlock sat up, expression expectant, and John pressed his palm to the center of Sherlock’s chest, pushing him down until his back was flat against the mattress, his bare arse still hanging half off the bed. Twin red swaths cut across his groin from the tops of his thighs to the underside of his balls, and John traced each with his fingertips, relishing the twitch of Sherlock’s body. John’s breath hitched. He couldn’t have planned better ways to mark Sherlock’s body, and they weren’t even really his doing.

He pressed his thumbs to the crux between Sherlock’s groin and inner thigh and pushed out, following the marks, and Sherlock shivered, a groan escaping his lips. John couldn’t be sure if it was from pleasure or pain, but he wasn’t sure he cared either. He did it again, and Sherlock’s hips kicked forward, his fists balling up the duvet. As his thumbs continued to trace the marks, John watched Sherlock, eyes scanning from his wrecked expression to his twitching abdominals to his flushed cock. John had never seen anything more beautiful, and he marveled that he had been able to take Sherlock apart so thoroughly within a matter of minutes.

“You’d think no one ever touched you like this,” John said as he crawled on the bed and straddled Sherlock’s stomach, sliding backwards until he could feel the shape of Sherlock’s cock against his jean-clad arse, and Sherlock bucked against it, his mouth wide and panting, though his eyes burned into John’s. John slipped the holster from his belt and set it aside. Then, with his hand already poised to undo his flies, John stopped. “Has anyone?”

Sherlock’s hips tilted, pressing the head of his cock to John’s coccyx. “Not quite.”

John shuddered, easing down his zipper and pulling out his cock, and Sherlock licked his lips at the sight. “Tell me more,” John huffed.

Sherlock’s hips tilted again, and this time, John tipped his hips back, giving Sherlock more friction and sliding his own cock against Sherlock’s stomach at the same time. At Sherlock’s wrecked groan, John scooted forward, and Sherlock’s hips canted against nothing, his groan devolving into a whine.

“Tell me,” John insisted, straddling Sherlock’s chest.

“I’m not a virgin.” Sherlock’s gaze settled on John’s cock, and he licked his lips, his mouth falling open.

God, that sight was too much to resist. Coming up on his knees and rubbing the tip of his cock on Sherlock’s bottom lip, he said, “I never said you were.”

“But not like this,” Sherlock said, his lips moving against John’s frenulum. And then his jaw dropped open, his tongue darting out to lick at John’s slit.

“Oh, fuck.” John fell forward, catching himself on his right arm. His left hand still steadying his cock, he angled down until a squeeze of his buttocks slid his cock past Sherlock’s lips, the feel of the flat of his tongue against the underside of John’s cock exquisite.

“Fuck,” he repeated, peering down at Sherlock’s face. Sherlock’s head was tilted back, his tongue lapping at John’s frenulum as if it was the best thing he’d ever tasted. John closed his eyes tight, commanding, “Suck it.”

Sherlock wrapped his lips around John’s cock, picking his head up off the bed to envelope more of it, his tongue wriggling along the underside.

“That’s it,” John croaked. “Just like that. Fuck yeah. Swallow it.”

And Sherlock did just that, drawing John in until he could feel the back of Sherlock’s throat. John shifted his hips slowly back and forth, not keen on gagging Sherlock, but God, that was hot. It was so hard not to just fuck Sherlock’s face, poised as he was above Sherlock, nearly sitting on his face, only his straining muscles and self control stopping him from burying himself in Sherlock’s mouth. He trembled, watching himself slide out and into Sherlock’s mouth, Sherlock’s eyes staring up at him.

With a growl, John pulled out, throwing a leg over until he was no longer on top of Sherlock. He fell to his back, wrapping his fingers around the base of his scrotum and pulling down to take the edge off. And while John caught his breath, Sherlock pounced on his opportunity. After yanking John's pants and trousers down to his knees, he straddled John’s hips, sliding their cocks together.

“Come on,” he whispered, dropping his bodyweight on John, trapping their cocks between them. “Don’t stop now.”

Sherlock tilted his hips forward, and all the breath rushed from John’s body. He gripped Sherlock’s arse, pushing their bodies together again and again, his own hips thrusting fast and hard. Shit, it was good, so many different sensations surrounding his cock, all hard and fast and rough. If he’d had his faculties, he might have asked for lube or wrapped his hand around both of them, but as it was, he could only think _harder, faster, more, God, fuck, yes._ His eyes slammed shut, and his world narrowed to the tension in his groin, the arse in his hands, the breathy groans in his ear, and as he felt fluid pulse between them, his back arched. His fingers spasmed against Sherlock’s arse, and he shouted, his cock pulsing and jumping in its trap, their come mixing on their bellies and John’s shirtuntil they collapsed against each other, chests heaving, bodies trembling with aftershocks.

John let Sherlock lay on top of him as he came down. His fingertips traced the shape of Sherlock’s spine, slid out over the furrows between his ribs, and John sighed.

John’s eyes snapped open, and a vice closed around his chest. “God damn it,” he muttered.

“What?” Sherlock murmured against John’s neck.

“I like you.”

“Problem?”

John huffed, and an irrational chuckle bubbled up his throat. “A bit. Yeah.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Stop thinking so loud,” Sherlock mumbled into John’s shoulder. And despite himself, John laughed. Two chuckles managed to make their way out until his panic swallowed them up.
> 
> He pushed Sherlock aside, pulling his pants and trousers back up as he stood. “I need to get out of London.”

John stared at the ceiling, Sherlock’s naked form still resting on him, and his mind raced. There was only one thing he knew for sure. He couldn’t kill Sherlock. But that threw everything else into hell. How long did he have until Moran’s employer came after him? Should he run? Should he turn himself in?

He’d seen enough of whatever was behind Moran to know that their influence was wide. He couldn’t hope to hide anywhere in Britain, and he couldn’t hope to be safe in prison. Even if his employer didn’t have police or guards in his pocket, there were sure to be prisoners more than happy to do him in.

“Stop thinking so loud,” Sherlock mumbled into John’s shoulder. And despite himself, John laughed. Two chuckles managed to make their way out until his panic swallowed them up.

He pushed Sherlock aside, pulling his pants and trousers back up as he stood. “I need to get out of London.”

Sherlock flopped onto his back, unabashed in his sex-soaked nudity. “No, you don’t.”

John zipped his trousers, rushing to the wardrobe for his duffel. “What? Are you crazy?”

“Some say so.” Sherlock smirked as he propped himself on his elbows. “But that’s irrelevant.”

John tossed his duffel on the bed, ripping open the zipper. “Very funny.”

Sherlock grabbed John’s wrist. “John, stop.”

John ripped his hand away, his jaw clenching tight around his words. “It’s all great for you. You’re off the hook, but I’m going to be made an example of. Pardon me if I’d like to delay that as long as I can.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, launching himself off the bed. Then, he disappeared into the loo, speaking over the sound of running water, “Don’t be ridiculous, John. I’m not off the hook.” He reappeared, wiping his stomach with a flannel. “You leaving town is not in either of our best interests.”

John ran a hand over his face, his breath gusting out of him as Sherlock cleaned his stomach and watched John from under his lashes. “Could you put something on, please?”

Sherlock stared at John as he cleaned the last bit of his stomach, and then he walked back into the loo, running the water.

John threw up his hands, cursing to himself as he threw clothes into his duffel. Infuriating fucking Sherlock Holmes, officially the bane of John’s existence. Had to go and get under his skin. God, how did this even happen? How did he allow it? If only this could have been straightforward. If only he hadn’t needed to learn more about Sherlock.

But there was no use in dwelling. Nothing could be changed now. He shook his duffel to distribute the clothes already in there, but when he reached for his tablet, Sherlock grabbed his wrist, spinning him so they faced each other.

“John, stop and listen to me.”

John stared up at Sherlock’s face, his jaw and fists tight. His breath huffed in and out of his nose.

“Leaving now will only get us both killed. Do you trust me?”

“No.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched. “Fair enough.” He dropped John’s wrist and spun to sweep his clothes from the floor, whipping on his trousers. “Give me a few hours. I can end this.”

“And just what are you going to do?”

The twitch in Sherlock’s lips bloomed into a smile as he put on his shirt. “You’ll see.”

“No. This doesn’t work like that. You’re not putting my life in danger without telling me what you’re doing.”

Sherlock slipped on his shoes and crossed to the wardrobe, throwing his suit jacket over his shoulders. “Consider it payback.”

Sherlock reached for his coat, but John threw out his arm to block it, the heel of his hand slamming into the door of the wardrobe. “Oh, so that’s what it is, is it? You’re gonna squeal on me in the hopes of saving your life? It won’t work.”

Sherlock reached under John’s arm to pull out his coat. “Of course it won’t. That’s why I’m not doing it.” He swept the coat over his shoulders, popping up the collar. “Come by Baker Street around six.”

And with that, Sherlock was out the door, his coat billowing behind him like a fucking super-hero cape. John took two steps towards the door. He was about to pursue Sherlock, but even he knew better. There was no way to talk Sherlock out of whatever he was about to do, and without knowing what the outcome would be, John was loath to keep trying. Seeing how this played out seemed to be his best hope to keep living, albeit a small one.

So, with one more terrible option added to his impossible choice, John decided to take a shower. It wouldn’t do anything to get him out of this, but it would help him feel better. And at this point, he’d take anything. As he waited for the water to warm up, he swallowed another pill.

***

The best feature of the shower in a fancy hotel is that they never run out of hot water. And with an excess of opiates coursing through John’s body, the warm water felt bloody fantastic. He massaged his bad hip under the flow. _Psychosomatic my arse._ And as he washed the dried semen that had managed to leak through his shirt, hazy memories of their encounter seeped through his mind.

Maybe this plan wasn’t so bad after all. If anything he did would get him or Sherlock killed, they might as well get a few good shags out of it.

Feeling at least a tinge better, John shut off the water and wrapped a towel around his waist. He ruffled his hair to shake free excess water droplets and opened the door to his room, goosebumps raising at the rush of cool air on his skin.

But as he walked out the door, he froze.

Umbrella man sat in the room's armchair, legs crossed, umbrella propped between his leg and the arm of the chair. John glanced over to the bedside table.

"Looking for this perhaps?" umbrella man asked, holding John's pistol and holster in the palm of his hand.

John's nostrils flared and his fist clenched where it held his towel in place. "Who are you, and how did you get in here?"

Umbrella man set John's pistol aside. "I have my ways."

"Great, but that doesn't really answer my question."

Somehow, despite the dramatics, umbrella man looked bored, reaching down to smooth the cuff on his trousers. "A concerned party."

John scoffed. "Concerned about what?"

"Our mutual acquaintance."

John stared, waiting for more, but nothing was forthcoming. What was the game here? Surely if he were here from Moran, John would be dead already. Or at least threatened with it. No, more likely he was talking about Sherlock, but that didn’t exactly clear things up. With a sigh, John walked over and reached into his duffel. Umbrella man tensed.

With an exaggerated raise of his eyebrows,John pulled out a clean shirt and jeans. "Look, as much as I've enjoyed cryptic hour, I'd rather you got to the point."

John dropped his towel to throw on his trousers, and umbrella man averted his gaze, somehow still looking totally unaffected.

John scoffed and pulled on his shirt.

Umbrella man gestured towards the bed. "Please sit, Dr. Watson."

John's heart raced, an intense mix of fear and rage pulsing through him. "How do you know that name?"

"Like I said, I have my ways." He gestured to the bed again. "Sit."

"I don't want to sit."

Umbrella man paused, only the barest of microexpressions betraying his discomfort. "What's your connection with Sherlock Holmes?"

"I don't know who that is."

Umbrella man tutted. "We both know that's not true."

"Why do you care?"

"As I said, I'm a concerned party."

"Why? Is he a friend of yours?"

Umbrella man smirked. "You've met him. How many friends would you say he has?"

John glared, his lips pursing.

"I'm the closest thing Sherlock has to a friend."

John waited for clarification, but of course there wasn't any. Did this bloke ever say anything that wasn't cryptic? "Which is?"

"An enemy."

"An enemy."

"He would say his arch enemy."

John struggled not to roll his eyes at the relentless dramatics. Sherlock's arch enemy, seriously? True, that left the off chance that this man was actually John’s employer, but he doubted it. Actually, there was one name Sherlock mentioned.

“Are you Mycroft?”

Most of the ostensible Mycroft’s expression remained impassive, but his eyes went wide for a fraction of a second. “I see. You two are better acquainted than I expected.”

“What do you know of it?”

“I know that I’ve seen concerning behavior from him since making your acquaintance, and given your choice of career, I’m certain you can see my concern.”

John pressed his lips to a tight line, thumping a fist against his thigh. Great. There went another log on the bonfire. “I have no designs on killing him, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I asked no such thing.” Mycroft stood, buttoning his suit jacket. “But since you mention it, should you hurt him… Well, let’s just say I have my ways.”

“Get in line. Are you done?”

Mycroft set John’s pistol on the desk and grabbed his umbrella, swinging it as he walked past John to the door. Opening it, he turned back to say, “Time to choose a side, John Watson,” before walking out.

Though Mycroft left the door to fall closed behind him, John rushed over and hit it with the heel of his hand, slamming the deadbolt into place once it was closed.

***

Just short of six, John walked up the steps of 221b, duffel slung over his shoulders. He knocked.

After a moment, Mrs. Hudson answered. “Oh, hello. John, is it? Sherlock said you’d be coming by.”

Mrs. Hudson stepped aside, and John walked in, nodding to her.

“Oh, are you staying with us tonight?” Mrs. Hudson asked as John mounted the stairs.

“I’m not sure yet.”

Mrs. Hudson followed behind. “There’s a second bedroom upstairs. If you’ll be needing two. I’d be happy to fix it up for you.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.” John dropped his duffel by the sofa. “I don’t think that will be necessary.”

“Oh.” Mrs. Hudson giggled. “I’ll leave you to it then.”

As Mrs. Hudson walked down the stairs, John peered around the flat. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen, but John could hear movement in the bedroom. The door was cracked, but John didn’t go in just yet. There were a couple of things he needed to take care of first.

He crossed to the curtains and pulled both sets closed. Then, he checked his camera, which was still mounted to the bookshelf. Why on Earth would Sherlock have left it there? John’s first step upon finding a camera would be to get rid of it. Though, why did he expect different? This was the same man who called him after finding the camera and then came to visit him.

Still, now that he and Sherlock were seemingly working towards the same goal, it was a huge security breach. He ripped the camera from its adhesive backing, walked into the kitchen, and smashed it with a pan.

“Not very subtle,” came Sherlock’s voice from the bedroom door.

“No,” John replied, tossing the pan into the sink. “But effective.”

After sweeping the bits of camera off the table and into the bin, John strode back over to the window, pulling back the curtain enough to view askew through the window.

Sherlock flopped onto the sofa in the periphery of John’s vision, pulling a slipper out from under it. “What are you doing?”

“Making sure I wasn’t followed.” John glanced at Sherlock and was momentarily caught in the sight of his bare torso and his legs contained under a thin layer of blue, striped silk.

Sherlock pulled a cigarette from the slipper and tapped it against the toe. “You weren’t concerned before.”

“That was before your friend paid me a visit.”

“Friend?” Sherlock propped the cigarette between his lips and crossed to the mantle, stepping over the coffee table on the way.

“Enemy.” John went back to this window. He hadn’t seen a repeated face, and the tension in his chest started to ease just a bit.

“Oh.” Sherlock lit the cigarette with a match from the mantle. “Your employer?”

John shook his head, still staring out the window. “Mycroft.”

Sherlock paused. “Really. Why?”

John shrugged.

“Did he give you the ‘you hurt my brother, i kill you’ speech?”

“Something like that.” John continued his watch for a moment until his thoughts stuttered to a stop. “Brother?”

“Yes.” Sherlock tapped ash into the fireplace. “Problem?”

John chuckled, cocking his head. “Not exactly my first instinct.”

Sherlock smirked. “That so?”

“I thought he was a possessive client at first, but then you didn’t end up being a prost…” John trailed off, staring resolutely out the window. _Shouldn’t have said that._

“You thought I was a prostitute?” At least he didn’t sound offended.

“Yeah, well, I know better now.”

John startled at the feeling of a warm body curling against his back, an arm circling his waist. John glanced down to see Sherlock’s right hand snaking down his torso, the cigarette still between his fingers. He snapped his gaze back to the scene outside the window, concentrating hard on the faces there. They couldn’t get going with this until John knew he wasn’t followed.

Three fingers of Sherlock’s hand curled over John’s groin as the other hand tugged at his shirt. “I’d make a good one.”

John’s body settled against Sherlock’s chest, despite his best efforts to keep still. At least he was able to keep his eyes on the people outside.

“I have no doubt,” John replied, his voice thick and slow.

“Hmm. You like that idea, don’t you? Having me here for your pleasure. Doing what you want with me.”

John’s breath came shaky, forced inhalations and exhalations to keep it from going completely out of control. He had to concentrate, but God, that voice saying such dirty things, that bare torso pressing against his back, those hands teasing at his most sensitive places. Just a few more seconds of this, and he would be ready to say, fuck it. Instead, he rocked his hips backward, tilting up his arse, seeking an answering pressure.

“Oh,” Sherlock gasped, thrusting languidly against John’s arse, the head of his silk-clad cock sliding up the small of John’s back. “You do.”

“Is this why you asked me over?”

John tilted his face towards Sherlock’s, only for Sherlock to pop up and exclaim, “Oh!”

The heat of Sherlock’s body disappeared in a rush, leaving John swaying in the wind, watching Sherlock rush around the room, throw his cigarette in the fireplace, and snatch up a laptop. He threw it down on the coffee table and sat on the sofa, his whole body bouncing and wriggling against the cushion.

Opening the laptop, he said, “I payed our Mr. Moran a visit today.”

“What?” John gaped, his eyes blinking in rapid succession, a cold vice of fear clamping around his chest. He sputtered, struggling to come up with words to properly express his shock and anger and fear and all the other roiling emotions fighting for dominance, but he was finally only able to come up with another, “What?”

Sherlock typed and clickedaway as if nothing was happening. “I’m forcing his hand.”

John dropped the curtain, marching to stand across the coffee table from Sherlock. “You must be joking.”

“No.” He gave John a quick come hither with his finger and scooted over on the sofa, never taking his eyes of the screen. “Come listen.”

As John sat next to Sherlock, Sherlock pressed play. A dial-tone sounded, followed by the sound of a number being dialed. It rang twice before being answered.

“Hello?” came the first voice, soft, high pitched but definitely male.

“It’s Seb, sir.” God, he sounded nervous.

“What is it?”

“Sherlock came to the office this afternoon.”

“How long ago?” the first voice snapped. There was something familiar about it.

“He just left. I think he knows.”

“Of course he does.”

“How?”

“The intrepid soldier, I’m certain.”

“Fuck me,” John muttered, rubbing both hands down his face.

“What should I do?” asked Moran.

“Do nothing. I’ll take care of it, but remember, Seb, I’m disappointed,” the first voice said, putting extra emphasis on each fricative in the last word. And then the line went dead.

“So?” Sherlock asked, looking smug.

“So, what? That wasn’t anything.”

“Oh, John,” Sherlock tutted. “Don’t you see? Now we have his phone number.”

Sherlock’s eyes were wide with excitement, his mobile balanced in the palm of his hand, and John backed away, shaking his head.

“No,” John said. “No, we are not calling him. That’s a death sentence.”

“Of course not,” Sherlock assured. “Not tonight.”

The bell for the front door rang, and John reached for the pistol at his hip, rushing to the window to peer out.

“Relax,” said Sherlock. “I ordered Chinese.”

John pulled back the edge of the curtain, hand still poised above his pistol, as Sherlock trotted down the stairs. He watched Sherlock open the door, pay the delivery boy, and take the food. Once the door closed, the delivery boy lingered to count his money and put it away, and then he rode off on his bicycle, more bags strapped into a basket on the back.

Finally, Sherlock came to the top of the stairs, dropping the bag on the kitchen table, and John walked away from the window.

“Did you know the person who delivered it?” John asked.

“I’ve seen him before,” Sherlock answered as he pulled boxes from the bag. “He’s in secondary school, and he hopes to go to university for art. His mother recently had to leave her job due to illness, and he works this job to help make ends meet. I tip him very well, so I doubt he would be persuaded to tamper with my food.” He held a pair of chopsticks wrapped in white paper out to John. “Good enough?”

John’s stomach rumbled. God, he couldn’t recall the last time he’d eaten. He definitely hadn’t eaten lunch and probably hadn’t had breakfast, and at this point he was hungry enough that it didn’t really matter if the food was corrupted. He grabbed the chopsticks and sat across from Sherlock at the table, peering into the boxes in front of him and claiming one full of noodles.

Propping his left foot on the chair next to him, John asked, “So what do you plan to do with that phone number?”

“I’ll have Lestrade track it for me.”

“Who’s that?”

“A detective at the Yard. He owes me a favor. We’ll go over there in the morning.”

John choked on a noodle. “Oh no, I’m not going.”

“Why not?’

“Do you think I’m suicidal?”

Sherlock paused with his chopsticks in mid-air, his eyes narrowing and his gaze flitting about John’s person.

“Stop. Don’t answer that.” He tipped the box towards Sherlock. “Noodles?”

Sherlock shook his head and smirked before closing his lips around a piece of chicken. “No more so than I am.”

John’s gaze snapped up to meet Sherlock’s, and he stared, trying to glean some information from Sherlock’s pleased face when he got distracted by a smear of sauce underneath Sherlock’s bottom lip. Clearing his throat, he went back to his box of noodles, but when he looked at them, his stomach turned.

He tossed the box onto the table. “I’m not going.”

“Come now, John. Where’s your sense of adventure?”

“Fuck adventure. I’ve gotten this far by being careful, and we’ve both seen what happens when something exciting gets the best of me.”

Sherlock took another bite, the edge of his chopsticks leaving a trail of sauce from the corner of his mouth. “Why, John. You flatter me.”

“That wasn’t my intent.”

“Yes it was.”

John’s mouth twitched at the corner, and a single laugh huffed through his nose. “Maybe a bit.”

Sherlock stared at John for a moment, tapping his chopsticks against the edge of his box of food, before he dropped his chopsticks and nodded towards the bedroom. He rose from the table and sauntered in that direction.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going to the bedroom. I plan to bribe you with sexual favors until you agree to go see Lestrade with me.”

John shook his head. “No. It won’t work. I’m not going.”

Sherlock huffed, rolling his eyes. “You seemed to have missed the main thrust, John. No matter the outcome, our time together is limited, so come into the bedroom and fuck me while you still have the chance.”

Sherlock spun on his heel and marched into the bedroom, his curls bouncing behind him, and John couldn’t help but laugh.

“Well, when you put it that way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, many thanks to emmagrant01 for the beta. Sorry this update came late. I promise the next one will be on Monday.


	8. Chapter 8

The cab jostled its way towards Scotland Yard, loose on its shocks, but John was stiff. He was about to enter the lion’s den with a meaty pork chop hanging from his neck. Without his usual pound of reassurance at his hip. His heart tried to jump out of his chest, but in the end, Sherlock was probably right. There wasn’t any place in London safer for them than Scotland Yard, and getting hauled off to jail was one of the better possible outcomes.

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” he muttered.

“I can be quite persuasive.” Sherlock faced forward, watching the upcoming traffic, but John spotted a crooked smile forming.

John chuckled. “Yeah, and I have the bite marks to prove it.”

Sherlock reached out, pressing his thumb in tiny circles against the crook of John’s neck just behind the clavicle. John’s head fell to the side, and he groaned at the pleasant ache of it, closing his eyes as memories of the night before flitted through his mind like a pornographic slideshow. Sherlock hummed, and John heard a rustle of fabric before Sherlock’s lips were against his ear.

“Want some more?” Sherlock asked before diving down, nibbling at the sensitive skin under John’s jaw, his tongue tracing John’s carotid artery.

John’s head fell back against the top of his seat, and he let the prickle of teeth and the pressure of suction wash over him, cleansing the tension in his body and consolidating it low in his belly. Groaning, he reached blindly for Sherlock, finding his thigh and squeezing. Though Sherlock didn’t stop the glorious things he was doing with his mouth, his hips canted forward in the seat, driving John’s hand farther up his thigh.

After a few repetitions, John finally got the hint. He slid his hand up Sherlock’s inner thigh until he could cup Sherlock’s semi-turgid cock in his hand. At that, Sherlock popped off John’s neck, tracing the new marks with his fingertips. John blinked slowly, his lips eventually finding Sherlock’s, already swollen and pouty. Delectable. As his hand slid up Sherlock’s neck to grip in his curls, the other, still trapped between them, worked Sherlock’s cock through his trousers. His palm slid up and down, pressing hard against a quickly growing erection.

“You like it rough, love?” John whispered, pressing his palm more firmly against Sherlock’s groin.

Sherlock responded by thrusting into John’s hand, whimpers flowing from his lips, and John had to capture them. He sealed his lips to Sherlock’s, coaxing his tongue to shape his vocalizations, swallowing them down. God, what a magnificent man. As long as Sherlock kept making these noises, John could go on like this forever. Maybe bring Sherlock to the edge and then back off, making him whine into John’s mouth.

At a slam on the partition, they flew apart, each staring out their window pretending nothing at happened, the tightness in their pants notwithstanding.

“Keep it in your pants all right?” the cabbie admonished.

John nodded, but after a moment, he couldn’t help a giggle from bubbling up, several more following the first. God, that was ridiculous. When did he become a man who snogged in the back of cabs? 

Sherlock’s shoulders shook in a similar silent laughter, but somehow he managed to look innocent as he turned to face John. “What?”

“You”--John pointed--”are a bad man.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched, and he glanced down at the space between them before settling his gaze back on the road. A moment later, the cab came to a stop outside Scotland Yard. Sherlock scooted out of the car and circled around to the driver’s window to pay, and John followed.

As he shut the door behind him and listened to the cab roll away, he took a deep breath, forcing them in and out in a steady rhythm. His fists and jaw clenched. Hell, his whole body clenched as he fought all the parts of it that screamed to get out of here. He took one stiff step forward and then another, and then Sherlock took his hand, twining their fingers together. Some of John’s tension eased, flowing out his fingers, and he looked down at their clasped hands.

“Come along, John,” Sherlock said before dragging him through the front door.

***

Somehow they made it to the homicide division without incident, and wasn’t that a turn up. Sherlock held his hand the whole way, only dropping it as they approached the office of one DI G. Lestrade.

“Gavin,” Sherlock said with a nod to the man behind the desk, an attractive bloke with salt and pepper hair that John, thanks to getting keyed up in the cab, was now imagining in a threesome with him and Sherlock. And also imagining himself getting thrown down and handcuffed.

“It’s Greg,” heretofore Gavin said as Sherlock hung up his coat. “Who’s this?”

“He’s with me.” Sherlock unbuttoned his suit jacket and sat across the desk.

“I can see that. Why is he here?”

Sherlock smiled up at John, who stood just inside the doorway with his hands shoved into his jacket pockets, and then twisted his head back to Greg. “He’s my boyfriend.”

John did his best not to flinch. So that’s how they were playing it?

Greg’s eyes went wide for a moment, and he glanced back and forth between John and Sherlock. Before the silence and strange looks could go on for too long, John stepped forward and offered his hand.

“John.”

Greg shook it. “Greg Lestrade.” He turned back to Sherlock. “That’s lovely, Sherlock, but this isn’t a place to bring a date.”

Sherlock waved that off. “Don’t worry. He has a stake in this as well.” Sherlock pulled his phone from the inside pocket of his suit jacket and pulled up his contacts. “The man at this number has designs on killing me.”

“Now that’s surprising,” came a female voice from behind John. He turned to find a tawny-skinned woman with perfectly coifed curls wearing dark jeans and heels with a figure-hugging blazer. “Who’s the scowler? You get yourself a bodyguard, freak?”

John’s scowl deepened but Sherlock just smirked.

“That’s his boyfriend, John,” Greg interceded. “John, this is Sergeant Donovan.”

“A boyfriend.” She raised her eyebrows at Sherlock. “How do you get a boyfriend?”

John’s lips pursed, his fists clenching and unclenching in his pockets. _Don’t hit a cop. Don’t hit a cop._

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her, gaze flitting from bit to bit. “Trouble sleeping, Sally? Did Anderson refuse to leave his wife again?”

Donovan’s fierce gaze turned to John. “What’s the secret? How do you stand him for more than two minutes?”

“He’s a brilliant shag, for starters.” John glanced out of the corner of his eyes to see Sherlock smiling down at his hands. “I could go on.”

“And I could have lived my entire life without learning that.”

“All right, all right, children,” Greg said. “If we could just concentrate for a moment. What is it you came for Sherlock?”

“I’d like you to track this number for me.”

Greg took the phone. “How do you know this person’s out for you?”

“They’ve hired a professional to do me in.”

“They’ve--” Greg scoffed. “Let me see your eyes. If you’ve come in here high again--”

“He’s telling the truth,” John interrupted, and both Greg and Sherlock looked at him with different expressions but equal levels of surprise. He could understand Greg’s surprise but not Sherlock’s. He knew as well as John did that they couldn’t leave without finding the source of that number. They were already here. It would be madness to leave without seeing this through.

“And speaking of that,” Greg said, pointing to John. “I still don’t know why you’re here.”

“They’re after him as well,” Sherlock offered.

Placing both fists on his hips, Greg stared at John. He looked tired, worried, angry, and John thought he was probably reflecting the same emotions back. Greg’s eyes searched Donovan’s face, but she just shrugged. Finally, he looked down at Sherlock and sighed.

“All right, but don’t forget. I’m breaking protocol just to do this”--he thrust forward the phone--”for you.”

Greg sat in his chair and rolled over to his computer. “Donovan, would you mind fetching some coffee?”

“Are you joking?” she scoffed.

“Unless you have something more important.”

“You know what.” She tapped her temple as if an idea had just dawned on her. “I actually do.”

As she bustled off, Greg chuckled and went back to the screen. “Have a seat, John. This may take a minute.”

“What about the coffee? I’ll go--”

“No problem. I was just needling h--”

“I’ll get it, sir,” offered a young man in the cubicle across from Greg’s office.

“Oh.” Greg raised his eyebrows and leaned back in his chair. “Cheers, Kevin. Sherlock? John?”

“Black, two sugars,” Sherlock said without turning from the desk.

John turned to Kevin. “Just a splash of milk for me, thanks.”

As Kevin left to get coffee, John kept his spot of sentry, half in and half out of the office.

“Do you know the carrier?” asked Greg.

“No,” Sherlock replied.

“Please tell me you at least Googled the number.”

“Of course. There were no listings.”

Greg plugged in the number. “We should see something in just a minute.”

While they waited, Kevin returned with the coffee, handing it off to Sherlock, who took it without comment, and Greg, who smiled and nodded before turning back to his computer screen.

When Kevin handed John the last cup, John said, “You didn’t get one for yourself. Here”--he offered his cup--”take mine. I’ll get another one for myself.”

Kevin took a step back. “No thank you. I’m all right.”

John offered again. “You sure? It’s no trouble.”

Kevin stepped back again. “Yes.”

John shrugged as Kevin returned to his cubicle. As he turned back to the office, he took a gulp of hot coffee. Kevin must have used creamer instead of milk; it had a bit of that over-sweet artificial taste. Still, caffeine was caffeine, and he needed it after the past two days.

Greg shook his head. “It’s not pinging anywhere.”

Sherlock grimaced as he swallowed some coffee. “That’s impossible.”

“Possible or not, that’s what’s happening.”

Sherlock hurried around the desk, hunching behind Greg. John scanned the bullpen and sipped at his coffee. Kevin smiled politely.

“Try calling it,” Greg suggested.

Sherlock huffed. “Fine.” He dialed the number, emphatically putting it on speaker phone. “Perhaps if you could get your equipment to work correctly.”

“Oi, shut it.”

“Are you getting anything?”

“Not yet.”

Finally, a voice came over the speaker. “We're sorry; you have reached a number that has been disconnected or is no longer in service.”

John’s heart sank, and Sherlock hurled the phone at the wall. It hit with a crack by John’s head, and John jumped, reaching for his hip. As the phone clattered to the floor by John’s feet, Greg hopped up from his chair. Meanwhile, Sherlock paced, his hands restless, his lips pulling back against his teeth before he bit them together. John picked up the phone. The screen was cracked, but it was probably still usable. So he slipped it into his pocket. It was folly to give it back to Sherlock at that moment.

Greg held up his hands as if he were talking to an active shooter. “Sherlock, listen. Give us a couple days. If we can figure out the carrier, maybe we can requisition the records. Find out who the phone belonged to.”

Sherlock waved that away, rubbing at his top lip as he continued to pace. “No, that won’t work. He’s too smart for that. My God, why didn’t I see this coming?”

He laughed, and John’s blood ran cold. 

“Oh, he’s clever, John. More clever than most.”

John crossed the room. “Not more clever than you.”

“Oh, John,” Sherlock said to the ceiling. “Such faith. You don’t know me.”

“Of course I do.”

John grabbed Sherlock’s elbow, who threw him a warning glare, but John hung on, meeting Sherlock’s eyes. He stared into them, willing Sherlock to calm down. If they had hope, it was in Sherlock’s brain, and a mind falling apart wasn’t going to do anything for them. _Come on, Sherlock, focus. Breathe._

John wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that, locked in each other’s gaze, but eventually Sherlock came out of it with a large intake of breath, his mouth popping open in discovery.

“Oh,” he breathed, a smile spreading on his face. “John, you’re brilliant. I need my laptop.”

Sherlock swept around John, pulling on his coat without breaking stride. John was stuck there for a moment, unsure of what just happened, but he followed quick enough, nodding to Kevin, who was on the phone.

“Wait,” Greg called behind them, hurrying around his desk to the door. “Sherlock, you need to be in protective custody.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Sherlock called back, pressing the button for the lift.

“Are you sure about this?” John asked

Before Sherlock could respond or the lift could arrive, Greg caught up with them, getting between Sherlock and the doors. “I really think you should reconsider.”

“A few minutes ago, you didn’t even think I was telling the truth,” Sherlock snapped.

“Yes, well, that was before you had a nervous breakdown in my office.”

“It’s fine. Just a momentary overreaction. I’ll have it sorted out in no time.”

“Sherlock,” John said. “You should--”

“I said it’s fine!” Sherlock shouted, drawing gaping gazes from around the room.

Luckily, or unluckily, the lift doors whisked open, and Sherlock stepped inside, jabbing at the button for the ground floor.

“Are you coming, John?” Sherlock asked, hand poised by the doorframe.

John let out a long breath. If Sherlock wasn’t going to take the protection, he was a goner without John. “Yeah. All right.”

But, as soon as the doors closed, John turned on him. “Take the protection, Sherlock.”

“No.”

“Be practical. This is your best chance to make it out of this alive.”

Sherlock turned his face halfway towards John, without looking him in the eye, repeating, “No.”

John rolled back on his feet, turning in the limited space. “God, you’re stubborn.”

“Just trust me, John.”

“No.” John shook his head, his jaw clenching. “No, Sherlock. This is madness.”

“And what of you?”

“Who gives a fuck?”

Sherlock paused, his brow furrowing. “Why would you say that?”

John blinked, his mouth wide. 

As the lift dinged, John huffed a parody of a laugh. “Because I like you. I’d rather you stay alive.”

The doors whisked open, and Sherlock raised his eyebrows, a smile spreading on his face. “Then let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, many thanks to emmagrant01 for the beta and many apologies for posting late.


	9. Chapter 9

The first thing John was aware of was a lurching in his stomach, followed quickly by the slow beat of his heart in his temples. Next came the hard surface under his thighs and behind his back. Then his wrists and elbows bound together, straining his shoulders, pulling the skin of his scar taut. If he didn’t know from experience, he might have expected it to rip.

He blinked several times, trying to make his surroundings come into focus, but they never would quite do it. And his head just kept falling. He tried to move his feet but found them bound as well. He pushed to his toes, tipping fractionally back, and the crown of his head clacked into something. That grunted. So he was in a chair. Somewhere. Tied up. And drugged. With someone behind him. Sherlock, most likely.

John tried to open his mouth and found his lips adhered to his teeth. Running his tongue over his teeth, he tried to will saliva into his mouth. He tried to will his eyes open again to no avail.

Finally his lips were free enough for him to rasp, “S’lock?”

“Oh good, you’re awake.”

John blinked, a rough outline of the space starting to form. “What happened?” dripped slowly from his mouth.

“We were drugged.”

“Mmm hmm,” John agreed. “Got that.”

John heard a rustle behind him. “It must have been the coffee.”

John blinked some more, and finally the space came into focus. Dark, bare, industrial. “Where are we?”

Sherlock grunted, and John heard the scrape of wood against concrete. Something bumped his elbow. “Warehouse. Somewhere near the Thames if the smell is anything to go by. There’s a train track nearby as well, but that doesn’t narrow it down much. We’re still in London at least.”

John tugged on his binds, looking for a weakness, but pain shot through his shoulder. “Well, this is just brilliant. Can you move at all?”

“A bit. Just give me…”

At the silence, John panicked. “Sherlock? What happened?”

“Um,” Sherlock said. “There’s a laser sight pointed at my chest.”

“Why haven’t they pulled the trigger?”

“I don’t know.” The chair scraped against the floor. “I don’t like not knowing.”

John turned his head, eyeing curls in his peripheral vision. Sherlock sat stock still, his back as straight as a razor’s edge. John tried to gain some information from his limited view, perhaps spy possible sniping sites, but the position put too much strain on his shoulders. His scar ached, and after a stretch too far, pain shot down his arm, making his hand spasm.

In an involuntary move, he jerked like a frog thrown onto a hot plate, centering himself on the chair. Once again his view was totally useless. Not even a window to gain some sort of context. Maybe if he could just turn his chair a bit, he could get a look at Sherlock, and then maybe he could figure out what to do.

With all the force he could muster, John pushed up on his toes, making the chair leave the ground by mere millimeters. It was just enough to let him turn the chair a few degrees, so he did it again, his chest heaving with the effort. Sherlock sat completely still the whole time, and as far as John could tell, he did nothing but stare at the tiny red dot at the center of his chest.

“It’ll be okay,” John whispered through his labored breathing.

“I wouldn’t be so sure if I were you,” lilted a voice.

John froze. At the sound of dress shoes clicking against the concrete, his gaze snapped to his left. He squinted in the general direction of the sound, trying to get a look at the speaker because if he didn’t know better, he’d say he heard that voice before. And not just on the phone with Moran.

The voice tutted. “Johnny boy, I’m disappointed in you.” The embodiment of the voice stepped into a square of light left by a window, and John knew where he’d heard the voice before. It was Roger, the nervous young man he’d encouraged to get out of the business, except this time he wore an impeccably tailored, extremely expensive suit, and his hair no longer resembled that of a small child’s.

“I mean, I didn’t actually expect you to succeed, but this is embarrassing.” Roger came to a stop, posture exuding gleeful confidence.

“You?” John asked. “You’re the one who hired me?”

“Surprised?” Roger smiled, his eyes glittering. “I liked that touch at the end, after I gave you the briefcase, where you told me to get out while I had the chance. How”--he searched for a word--”empathetic.”

“Just who are you, anyway?”

“Moriarty,” Sherlock growled.

“Ding ding ding,” Moriarty chimed, one finger pointing to his nose and the other to Sherlock. “We have a winner.”

“You know him?” John asked.

“I’ve heard whispers,” Sherlock replied.

“And Sherlock. You. I thought you’d scare him away like the others.”

Sherlock’s breath rushed in through his nose. “Others? How many others?”

Moriarty shrugged. “Oh, two or three. Don’t worry. They never got close. I let them scamper off. America, Hungary, Czech Republic.”

“Fuck,” John muttered. He hated being proven right. There really was no sanctuary.

“Tell me, Sherlock; did you mean to seduce him, or was it an accident?”

Sherlock’s jaw worked, grinding his teeth together. “What is it that you want?”

“Oh, nothing really. I just wanted to thank you for the entertainment. But playtime’s over,” he sing-songed.

John swallowed, took a deep breath. _Stay calm. Think it through._

“So, you mean to kill us, then,” Sherlock offered, trying to slip his arms from his bounds.

“Stop. Moving!” Moriarty screamed, and Sherlock stilled.

John surveyed the rafters for the gunman.

“There now,” Moriarty said. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Sherlock’s chest rose and fell.

“No, I don’t mean to kill you. Not today anyway.”

“Then what?” Sherlock snapped.

“Temper temper, Sherlock. Angry boys don’t get their pudding.” Moriarty smirked. “Consider this your warning. Stop looking for me. I know you’ve been putting together the pieces.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Well.” He shrugged. “It doesn’t make a difference. No one gets to me. But, if you don’t, I’ll destroy you. Bye bye, Johnny boy. Bye bye, Mrs. Hudson. Bye bye, Greg. I have snipers much better than Johnny boy, and I can take them out whenever I want.”

“Or I could just take you out instead.”

Moriarty tutted. “Wrong answer. You really have no sense of self preservation, do you?”

Moriarty raised a single finger by his ear, flicking the lobe forward as he turned away. John’s heart threatened to jump out his throat, and he swallowed around it. That gesture was just the right blend of odd and innocuous to be a signal, and he had no time to act.

John rocked forward. Pushing off his feet, he launched himself backwards. The center of his back collided with a sharp corner, and time slowed. For a nanosecond that felt like eternity, he feared his efforts were for nothing, but then Sherlock’s chair tipped to the side. John landed like a ton of bricks, pain searing through his left shoulder. The legs of the chair broke beneath him, sending him rolling onto his side, facing away from Sherlock.

John groaned. His right arm was trapped under his body, the wood of the chair wedged into his armpit, but the pain was nothing compared to his left shoulder. He tried to take a deep breath, but it caught in his throat, stinging his chest.

Sherlock scrambled over. Though his feet were free, his arms were still bound behind his back.

“John?” he rasped, his eyes wide. “John, can you hear me?”

“Take cover,” John gurgled. The words made him cough, and something thick and wet dripped from his mouth.

Sherlock’s mouth turned down at the corners, his eyes narrowing. John felt as if he couldn’t look Sherlock in the eye lest he turn to stone. When he did, he had the momentary hysteria that it might be true because his vision began to fade at the edges.

Sherlock’s shoulders wriggled, and after a moment, he brought his hands to his front, pressing them into John’s shoulder. John barked in pain, trying to huddle in on himself, but he was stymied by the chair.

“Take cover,” he did his best to shout.

“I have to stop the bleeding.”

John heard an echo, rhythmic tapping against concrete. He must have been hallucinating. His vision tunneled and spread with the rhythm, and it gave him a headache. He just wanted to close his eyes and shut out the pain, but Sherlock’s voice made them snap open.

“I’m going to kill him for this.”

Sherlock lunged out of view, and John closed his eyes.

***

He opened them again to another rhythmic sound, this time a beep. The light was too harsh, the sheets beneath him too crisp, his clothes too papery. He blinked several times, his vision still refusing to coalesce, before the reality of his surroundings hit him.

He was in hospital.

_Shit._

He hadn’t been to a hospital since his last physical therapy appointment over a decade ago. He avoided them as a rule, getting medical care off the black market on the rare occasions when he needed it. A&Es meant authorities, meant he risked exposure.

He panicked, jerking his arms towards himself. His right hand nearly hit him in the face before he realized that he hadn’t been handcuffed to the bed. His left, however, had barely moved. It was strapped to his chest. He looked at his right hand, turning it over several times before he could truly convince himself that he wasn’t in immediate danger of being arrested. But how did he get here?

He was still pondering a few minutes later when he heard footsteps in the hallway. He tensed, reaching for his hip, and cursing himself for it. Yet another reason he avoided hospitals. One was helpless, a sitting duck, in a hospital bed.

Thankfully--and he never thought he’d think that about this person--Mycroft rounded the corner from the hallway into John’s room. John let out a long breath.

“Good evening, Dr. Watson. I’m glad to see you awake.”

John opened his mouth to respond, but Mycroft held up a halting hand.

“Don’t try to talk. The gunshot shattered your clavicle, and a bone shard lodged in your throat. I’m afraid your vocal cords are quite swollen.”

John deflated. For a moment, he wondered if Mycroft somehow arranged for him to be unable to speak, but that seemed preposterous. Didn’t it?

“I’m sure you’re wondering why I’m here.”

“Sherlock?” John attempted to ask, but all that would come out were the first two letters.

“Yes, he’s fine, thanks to his friend”--Mycroft pulled a small notebook from the pocket of his suit jacket--”Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. You have him to thank for your life as well.”

John’s brows furrowed.

“Ah, yes. He tracked Sherlock’s mobile. Quite a clever move, really.”

A closed-mouth puff of air through the nostrils was all John could get out in his attempt to ask about Moriarty.

“He’s in custody. My brother almost killed him.” Mycroft sighed dramatically, staring off into the distance as he leaned on the handle of his umbrella. “I’m afraid it’s going to be quite the legal hassle. I don’t know how long we’ll be able to keep him. Which brings me to my next order of business.”

Mycroft shifted his weight off his umbrella, going back to the notebook. John blinked at him, his eyebrows raising as his lips pursed.

“My brother informed me of six cold cases for which he has deleted all electronic records, and I am prepared to arrange for the destruction of all hard copies and stored evidence associated.”

John’s mouth formed around the question, “Why?”

“A man who would sacrifice his life to save Sherlock’s is worth keeping around for a bit, wouldn’t you agree?”

John shrugged, still nervous about where this could be going.

“Perhaps I should clarify. Sherlock is quite convinced that you are indispensable, and I am willing to go along with it for a trial basis. In exchange, your criminal history will be erased, but you should be warned that I will keep your Ruger, fingerprints, and all applicable case files should I ever need them in the future. You must maintain gainful employment and avoid all criminal activity. As long as you can keep to those guidelines, your criminal past need not come to light.”

John looked down at his hands, tapping his thumbs together. He couldn’t have asked for a better deal, even if the threat of exposure would always be over his head, but it was a bit overwhelming. That Sherlock would even try to get the deal made for him was incredible, and who exactly was Mycroft to be able to fulfill it?

“I do have a few questions before you answer.”

John’s gaze snapped up, and he gestured towards his throat.

“Oh, don’t worry. You won’t need to speak.”

John threw up his hands. Was this a Holmes trait, pulling answers from the air?

“I found the earliest case file most interesting. It’s the only one without ties to organized crime.”

John did his best not to tense up.

“It was your first murder, but you weren’t paid for it, were you?”

John looked up.

Mycroft smirked. “I thought not. You knew your victim, then.”

John nodded.

“According to my research, this man was acquitted of the murder of one”--he checked his notebook--”Major James Sholto.”

John’s fists clenched by his sides.

“Interesting. You served under him, did you not?”

John swallowed, grimacing around the pain.

“But you didn’t kill this man out of some loyalty to queen and country. This was more personal. He was a friend. More than a friend, hmm?”

John’s gaze turned to ice, a vice closing around his chest. What was the game here? Why was Mycroft dredging up old wounds? Was he just trying to torture him? Get in a few jabs before Sherlock could intervene? Before John could respond? John pushed through the pain in his throat, forcing air over his vocal cords, but he was barely able to get out a hard G sound before Mycroft was speaking again.

“Hmm. Yes. I think we’ll be just fine, Dr. Watson.” Mycroft slipped the notebook back into his jacket. “Feel free to consider my deal. I know how you must hate hospitals, so I have arranged for your release in the morning. Should you choose to take the deal, you will go into Sherlock’s custody, and a nurse will come to Baker Street three times a day to look after your medical care. Are we clear?”

John nodded.

“Have a good night.” Mycroft tapped the tip of his umbrella against the floor. “You may want to adjust your morphine pump. You must be in pain.”

John’s eyes darted around until he found what he was looking for. His morphine drip had been stopped, but it started again as soon as he pressed the up arrow. He stared out the door through which Mycroft had disappeared. Did that motherfucker turn off his morphine drip just to wake him up?

***

“Oh, John, it’s so good to see you again. Come in, come in.” Mrs. Hudson beckoned to John as she stepped aside. “Sherlock’s just upstairs. How’s your shoulder?”

“Fine,” John whispered.

“Oh dear. I’m sorry.” Mrs. Hudson touched her throat. “Mister Holmes warned me about your voice. You go on. I won’t bother you any longer.”

John smiled, giving Mrs. Hudson a pat on the arm as he mounted the stairs. Violin music filled the flat, halting as John reached the top of the stairs. Without looking back, Sherlock carefully placed the instrument on a stand, laying the bow on the windowsill. He looked stunning. Though the flat was still dark, the morning light filtered through the window, giving him a halo that John’s painkiller-addled mind told him made Sherlock look like a heavenly creature.

Sherlock turned. The corner of his mouth barely gave a twitch, but his eyes lit up like New Year’s Eve. He rushed over and kissed John, a move that John would have thrilled to at any other time, but at the moment, it hurt like hell.

He managed to eke out a squeak, and Sherlock flinched away.

“Of course.” Sherlock wiped his mouth. “What do you need?”

John pointed to the sofa, and Sherlock helped him lie down on it.

Sherlock sat on the coffee table. He stared at John for a long moment, his gaze inscrutable. “I’m glad you’re here.”

John pressed his head against the cushion on the arm of the sofa, lifting his shoulders in a futile attempt to find a comfortable position. He shifted his weight to the right side, facing Sherlock and gesturing for something to write with.

“Just a moment.”

Listening as Sherlock disappeared into the kitchen and shuffled around, John closed his eyes. He opened them again when he felt a pen pressed into his palm. Sherlock held the pad for him as John struggled to write with his non-dominant hand. The scrawl came out just this side of legible.

_Not much choice._

Sherlock turned the pad to face himself, nodding. “No. Not my ideal solution either, but Mycroft needed assurances.”

_Why tell?_

“Why did I tell Mycroft about the cold cases?”

John nodded.

“He already knew. He’s a right nosy bastard.”

John chuckled, wincing as the movement jostled his shoulder. There was an an understatement. He was more nosy than Cyrano de Bergerac with a bee sting.

“It was the best I could do.”

John nodded. It made sense, and there were certainly worse places to be trapped.

“You could run.”

John scoffed, pointing to his shoulder. His lip curled, and his brows furrowed.

“When you improve, obviously. I won’t be able to keep Mycroft from going after you, but I could get you a headstart.”

_Why?_ John wrote.

Sherlock considered the question for a moment before looking in John’s eyes. “Why did you take a bullet for me?”

John tried to meet Sherlock’s eyes, but he found he couldn’t. Yeah, he had certainly revealed his hand there, and to know that Sherlock saw it and reciprocated was a bit more than he could handle, especially when an overabundance of opiates was ruining his stoic exterior.

So, he grabbed the notepad from Sherlock’s hand and tossed it aside. He took Sherlock’s hand in his and brought it to his mouth, kissing Sherlock’s palm before laying it over his heart.

This situation was complex to say the least. The threat of Moriarty, though neutralized for the moment, was certainly not gone. And despite Mycroft’s assurances, Sherlock’s job and relationship with a homicide detective did not ease John’s mind. Not to mention that Mycroft could, for all intents and purposes, kill him any time he had the whim.

But, if he had to be trapped, he liked that it was with someone who was willing to put himself on the line for John’s sake. Maybe it was the truth and maybe it was the opiates, but in that moment, John was the happiest he’d been in a long time.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all folks! I hope you've enjoyed the ride. Many thanks as always to emmagrant01 for the beta.
> 
> Come find me on [Tumblr](http://justacookieofacumberbatch.tumblr.com).

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to emmagrant01 for the beta. This fic is very nearly complete, so you can expect to get a chapter a week for the next nine weeks. I started this fic at 221b Con this year, so this has been a long time coming, and I'm super excited to finally have it ready to post. I hope you enjoy it!


End file.
